


Uprooted

by muckette



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Dub con due to magic, First Time, M/M, Magical!UA, Mild Gore, Mild Horror, Plot With Porn, Technically John is underaged (17) for part of it, longfic, mary is a bamf, virgin!John, wizard!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:57:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5553344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muckette/pseuds/muckette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Our Dragon doesn’t eat the girls he takes, no matter what the stories people tell outside our valley say. The Dragon protects us against the Wood, and we’re grateful. But not that grateful.</p><p>In which Sherlock is a dragon, Mary is a protector, Irene is a stolen queen, Moriarty is a prince, and John is not as boring and ordinary as he had thought. </p><p>A Sherlock reinterpretation of Uprooted by Naomi Novik. Written in the first person, from John’s perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Taking

Our valley has a Dragon. 

Our Dragon doesn’t eat the girls he takes, no matter what the stories people outside our valley tell. We hear them sometimes, from travelers passing through—wide eyed whispers from a traveling artisan or an errant song strummed out on the lute of a troubadour about gnashing teeth and maidens’ screams. They talk as though we were performing human sacrifice. As if he was a real dragon. Of course, that’s not true. Well, he is a wizard and immortal, but he is still just a man. And, anyway, if he were snatching up a girl to devour every ten years, the men of the village would have revolted long ago. 

The Dragon protects us against the Wood, and we’re grateful. But not that grateful. 

He doesn’t really devour them; it only feels that way. Every ten years, the Dragon takes a girl. He takes her to his tower and keeps her cloistered there for a decade before he lets her go—but, by then she is a different person. Changed in some elemental and essential way. A queer and different air hangs about her—wrapped up in her clothes and in the very words she speaks. Plus, she has been living alone for ten years with a man so, of course, she is widely considered to be ruined. Unspeakable. Unmarriageable. Despite the fact that each girl leaves the tower with a sack full of silver for her dowry from the Dragon’s own purse and they all swear he never touches them. It doesn’t matter. No one will marry them. And, they don’t want to marry anyway. They just want to leave.

“They forget how to live here, John” my father told me once, unexpectedly. I was riding next to him in the big wagon, on our way back from delivering that week’s firewood as he flicked the reins distractedly. We lived in Watson, which wasn’t the biggest village in the valley. Nor was it the smallest or the closest to the Wood. In fact, we were only second closest to the Wood—about seven miles up over the big hill. On a clear day, one could follow the roping tendrils of the Spindle River all the way back to the gray, scorched strip of earth that separated our valley from the encroaching shadow of the Wood. The Dragon’s tower was far on the other side of the valley—a long, thin white cigar disrupting the skyline. 

I was still very young—perhaps five?—but I was old enough to know that we didn’t talk about the Dragon or the girls he took. That’s why it shocked me when my father broke the rule. 

“They remember to be afraid” he spoke in a low voice. That was it. Then he clicked his tongue at the horses, hurrying them on as we fell back into silence. 

None of it made very much sense to me. Sure, we were all afraid of the Wood, but the valley was our home. How can you just leave your home? But, none of the girls came back to stay. Most of them came back for a week—perhaps three—to visit their families, before something seemed to draw them out. The valley seemed to be too small to contain them anymore. It was whispered that a few of them attended a University in the capital or became scholars and shopkeepers in large cities outside of the valley. 

So, that’s not the same as being eaten at all. But, it’s not a happy thing either. 

The valley isn’t so big that we have an abundance of extra girls to be taken. Each loss is felt deeply. For the past two centuries, every ten years he has taken a girl of seventeen—a Dragon born girl. They say that you love a Dragon born girl differently; you can’t help it really, knowing that you might very well lose her. My parents spent the entirety of my mother’s pregnancy sick with worry that I would be born a girl; that they would have to face the awful chance that in seventeen years I might be snatched from their arms. But, they needn’t have worried. Even if I had been born a girl, we all knew he would have taken Mary anyway. 

The Dragon didn’t always take the prettiest girl, but somehow he always took the most special one. If there was one girl who was the most stunningly beautiful, or the most bright, or the best dancer or singer, or even especially kind—somehow he always knew. He could always pick her out despite barely speaking a word to them before making his choice. 

Mary was all of those things and more. She had thick, golden hair that floated around her face like a soft haloing light. Her eyes were a warm and inviting green and her laugh was musical in a way that made you want to hum right along with her. She always thought of the best games to play and could make up stories and songs and new dances right on the spot. She could cook a feast fit for a king and when she got her hands on a piece of charcoal she could produce a sketch of person so life-like you might just hold your breath waiting for it to speak. 

And, I wasn’t old enough to be wise, so I loved her more, not less, because I knew she would be taken from me too soon. Not in the way a boy is supposed to love a girl, but as my dearest and closest friend. 

And for all that, Mary said that she didn’t mind it. She knew what her future held and she met it with her chin thrust forward and her shoulders squared. 

We lived on the same street, only three houses from another. I didn’t have any sisters of my own, only three older brothers, so Mary became my dear one. When we were smaller, I used to imagine her as the only woman I wanted to marry—that is before I realized how little desire I had to be married to a woman at all. And, before I really understood that she would be taken from me. I didn’t know how I would go on, when the Dragon took her. 

My parents wouldn’t have feared for me much, even if I had been born a girl. I was short for my age—far shorter than any of my brothers had been—a strange combination of stocky and wiry with big awkward feet and dirty-blond hair the color of late harvest wheat. A regular and terribly ordinary boy with perhaps a knack for trouble and a penchant for stubbornness. And, my only gift at all, if you could call it that, was the ability to stain or rip or tear or lose anything you gave or put on me within a few short hours. My parents stopped trying to make me appear respectable by the time I was 12 and were thankful that most of what I ruined were cast-offs from my older brothers. 

“You will have to marry a seamstress, my little John!” my mother had once remarked as I tumbled into the kitchen, grubby-faced, shoeless, and bespotted with several snags and tears. But, she kissed my forehead none the less and held me close. She was thankful that I was a bit of a mess. That I was not a girl. That I was not Mary. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Our last summer before The Taking was long, warm, and full of bittersweet laughter and tears. Mary didn’t cry, but I did. My brothers had always teased me for being overly sensitive, but I couldn't find it in my heart to care. 

It was just me and Mary together all that summer—it had been that way for a long time. When we were littler, we used to run with the crowd of other children from the village. But, as we got older—and Mary just got more beautiful—her mother had told her that it was probably best that she didn’t see much of the village boys. “For you and for them” she said. But, I can be stubborn when I want to and I refused to bugger off. Her mother didn’t try to pry me from her—perhaps realizing that it would hurt me more than Mary in the end. The girls that the Dragon took never came back. Never wanted to come back. 

But tomorrow was the first of October and the great harvest feast would be held in the village green to show honor to our patron and lord. 

Tomorrow, the Dragon would come.

Of course, I hated him passionately. But, he wasn’t a bad lord. Not really. The Dragon was almost more terrifying for his seeming absence most of the time. Way on the far side of our valley, on the other side of the mountain pass, Lord Lestrade of the Yellow Marshes kept a standing army of nearly 5,000 men and demanded every man work at least one day a week in his personal fields. The Dragon only had his one lonely tower, not a single conscripted man, and he only took one girl every ten years. Of course, he didn’t need an army. He had his magic. The king could have called him to war, I suppose, but for the most part his duty was to stay there and watch the Wood. Acting as a barrier between the kingdom and its malice. 

This might all seem like small and petty consolations to some, certainly not enough to justify giving up a daughter to a distant and terrifying lord, but those people didn’t live close enough to the Wood to understand. 

When I was six years old, I lived through the Green Summer when a strange, hot wind had carried fat clumps of yellow pollen from the Wood to fall upon our valley, onto the fields and gardens. The crops grew furiously lush, but also strange and misshapen, pulsing with a queer internal energy. Anyone who ate one would soon grow sick with anger—lashing out at their families with words and fists and knives—before running into the Wood and vanishing forever. If they weren’t tied down first.  


Despite being so young, I remember the clammy sense of dread that seemed to seep out of every doorway. Everyone was afraid and hunger pinched at every belly. One day that summer, feeling bottled-up and anxious, I escaped from my mother’s watch and ran into the nearby forest. I was too young to understand the danger. I had found a half-dead bramble of blackberries in a pocket of the wood that seemed to be sheltered from the wind. 

The fruits were not misshapen at all. Whole, juicy, and perfect. I swallowed down two handfuls before piling the rest into the bottom of my shirt, turning the fabric purple with the juices. My mother wept with horror when she saw my stained and smeared face, casting the rest of the berries into the fire and clinging to me. Somehow I didn’t sicken. But, my mother’s tears frightened me so badly that I was put off of blackberries for years after that. 

That was the first time I remember the Dragon coming to my village in a non-Taking year; he rode straight to the fields and called down a magic and ferocious fire that burnt the whole tainted harvest to barren soil. Afterwards, he went to every affected house and gave the sickened a sip of a healing draught which cleared their minds of the pollen. He gave the decree that all of the villages farther west, which had escaped the blight, should share their harvest with us. He even refused his personal tribute that year so none of us would starve. He then disappeared back to his tower until the next Taking.

But for all he’d saved us, we didn’t love him. He never came down from his tower to have a drink with the village headmen and women at holidays, the way other lords might. He didn’t come to the fairs or buy trinkets from the local artisans. When the carters brought him his yearly tribute at harvest, the doors to the tower opened by themselves and the men would deposit the food in the cellar and leave without ever laying eyes on him. 

He was abrasively short and caustic in those times he was forced to interact with us at all, as if he could not be bothered to waste his precious words on our ignorant ears, as if he could not wait to be away from us. He didn’t seem concerned with trying to win our love. 

He wasn’t evil, but he was distant and terrible. And he was going to take Mary away so I hated him. That last night together with Mary, we laid in the field behind my family’s house and stared up at the stars in silence, clenching each-others hands hard enough to make my knuckles grind together under my skin. But, I didn’t mind. The painful clutch reminded me that Mary was still there and real to me. 

I hated him even more the next morning when I was putting on my new green shirt for the harvest feast in the village center. Every year the feast was held in the village of Olsha, the village closest to the Dragon’s tower, except on a year with a Taking. Then the feast would be held in a village where one of the Dragon born girls was from, to make the travel a little easier for their families. And this year, our village had Mary. 

My fingers were shaking with anger and nerves as I did up the buttons—managing to pop one off in my distraction, which my mother stitched back on again with a sigh. We rode on my father’s wagon to the town center to join the rest of the people gathering in the village green. In the center, standing in a straight line, where the eleven Dragon-born girls with Mary standing at the very end. 

As soon as the horses had slowed enough, I jumped down from the bench—landing directly in the only mud puddle on the road, causing my mother to cluck her tongue at me. But, I hardly even noticed in my haste to weave my way through the crowd, overladen feasting tables, and past the village headwoman, Una, to stand as close as I dared by Mary’s side. I wanted to reach out and touch her hand or smooth her already immaculate yellow hair, but there was a trench of formality surrounding the girls where they stood, ready to be put on display, which made me halt in my tracks a few paces distant. 

Nonetheless, Mary noticed me out of the corner of her eye and quirked her lips into a smile meant to reassure me. _Don’t you worry, John. I’ll be alright. I know. I’ve always known what was going to happen._ Even in this moment, she was trying to shield and protect me when I should have been the one giving strength to her. I felt hot tears prickle at the back of my eyes as I bit the inside of my cheeks. 

I didn’t know the other girls much. They weren’t from Watson and had traveled here for the occasion. All of them were silent and stiff, dressed in nice clothes with hair braided back off of their scrubbed, pink faces. I noticed that none of them were as beautiful as Mary. I bit my cheek even harder.  


There was no sign of the Dragon yet, it was not too late. Wild fantasies ran through my head—snatching up her hand and dragging her away into the forest where we could live off of the food I was able to hunt and glean; or, flinging myself in front of her and confronting the Dragon, telling him that Mary didn’t want to go with him and that he a barbaric coward for treating us this way. But, I knew I wasn’t brave or clever enough to do any of that. So, I stood rooted to my spot, watching the road, and tasting the iron bite of blood on my tongue. 

And then he came, horribly. 

He didn’t come from the road at all. He just stepped right out of the air. First there was the swirling shape of what turned out to be the hem of a dark blue, long coat, followed by a leg and an arm and then the man himself. A moment later, the only sign that he had arrived in any peculiar fashion was the slight flourishing of his coat about him, despite the striking absence of any kind of breeze. I seemed to be the only one who saw his entrance. Others didn’t even notice him until he took his first steps forward. The people around me tried not to flinch in surprise. 

The Dragon wasn’t like any man I had ever seen before. He should have been stooped and withered and gray. Well, actually, he should have been long dead, being well over 200 years old. But, he was tall, straight, and beardless. His skin was taut and so smooth it appeared to be made out of porcelain and so pale that it seemed to glow in the early morning light. He had tilted eyes of a blue so light that I’d only ever seen it in the core of late winter icicles. His mouth was a pursed and plush bow of distain. The mop of dark, messy curls atop his head seemed in conflict with the rest of his appearance, which was polished and controlled. If I had glanced him in passing on the road to market, I would have thought him a young man—perhaps 25 years and certainly no more than thirty—someone I might have smiled at or even imagined wicked thoughts of when I was struggling to fall asleep at night, like Tom the butcher’s oldest son.

But there was something…unnatural in his face: a certain tightness around the corners of his eyes and mouth that spoke of how much life he had seen, the majority of which he seemed not to have enjoyed. It wasn’t an ugly face—he was actually quite beautiful I found myself thinking—but the calculating stiffness of it made it unpleasant. Everything about him mocked us, saying _I’m not one of you. And, I really don’t want to be either._

His clothes were rich and lush. Of course they were. His long coat was a blue so dark it was almost black, sumptuous with a subtle brocade at the cuff and about the collar—which stood up high around his neck and sharp cheekbones in a fashion I had never seen before. His tall boots were of a fine, black leather with silver edging. The brocade on his tunic alone could have fed a family for a year—even without the embellished, silver buttons. But, despite his broad shoulders, he had the lean look of a man who had suffered too many bad harvests. He held himself stiffly, with all the nervous energy of a hunting dog, as though he wanted nothing more than to be off quickly, chasing the next scent. 

It was the worst day of all our lives, but he had no patience for us. 

Our village headwoman, Una, stepped forward and bowed to him with a “My lord, please allow me to present to you these—“ 

“Yes, yes, alright, let’s get on with it.” He interrupted her without ever looking in her direction, instead taking three long strides toward the line of girls. There was an instinctive, uneasy shifting among the eleven girls—that of small forest creatures sensing the approach of a predator. 

I dug my fingernails into my palms as I watched him step down the line and tip each girl’s face, under the chin, to rake his eyes over their face—occasionally he would mutter a few words to himself (I heard the word ‘dull’ more than once) or ask a question—to which the poor girl would produce a stuttering response. He didn’t speak to the girl standing next to Mary at all, just tracing his eyes down her stature once before sniffing in a breath of seeming annoyance and turning his gaze to Mary. 

And then he paused, looking at Mary the way he hadn’t paused for any of the rest of the girls. He grew very still with his hands clasped behind his back, lips pursing slightly as his eyes narrowed—gaze fliting from one of her eyes to the other. He stepped forward and tipped two of his long white fingers under her chin to better take stock of her. A thin smile flirted at the corners of his mouth. Mary stared directly back into his eyes, bravely, and didn’t flinch. He smiled at her again, but not pleasantly, but with a satisfied-cat smirk. I felt my head go fuzzy and a warm darkness formed at the edges of my vision. 

Suddenly, the Dragon frowned and turned his head to look straight at me. I heard a hushed tide of gasps ripple through the crowd behind me. I don’t remember moving forward. I don’t remember thrusting my shoulder in front of Mary and grasping her hand in mine. But, somehow I was standing next to her with her arm pressed again mine and her fingers clenched in my grasp, staring into those icy blue, calculating eyes. I felt hot color fill my cheeks and run across my chest. I sucked in desperate lungfulls of air, feeling pinned by his gaze. 

Mary recovered faster than me, quickly prying her hand from mine. “Please, sir, he didn’t mean anything,” she began. 

The Dragon only narrowed his eyes at me further. His gaze quickly darted over me and I got the very queer and uncomfortable feeling of being assessed and catalogued. His brow knit as he did his mental calculations. I saw him take in the mud spattered across my boots and trousers, the snagged threads dangling from my cuffs, the sap of a tree branch that had managed to reach out and grab at my arm in the wagon earlier, and the place where the button my mother had resewn earlier was missing again through no knowledge of mine. I felt the weight of his gaze falling briefly on and hopscotching across each freckle on the bridge of my nose and I could almost swear that his eyes lingered on my left shoulder where, under my shirt and waistcoat, there lay a starburst of a scar from a childhood accident which by some miracle hadn’t killed me. 

He huffed out a breath that wasn’t quite a grunt or a laugh, as if he had added up my parts but the sum was not what he had expected. He stepped forward into my space and, looking down his nose at me, raised his hand. In his fingers a tiny ball of blue-white flame sparked to life. More startled gasps erupted from behind me. Fear trickled down my spine, too terrified to move I remained rooted to the earth, transfixed in horror by the little ball of light. 

“Please my, lord—“ Mary practically begged. 

“Oh be quiet, you idiot girl,” the Dragon said, and held his hand out toward me, causing me to flinch, waiting for the heat of it to scorch my cheek. “Take it.”

“I—what?” I choked. I would not have been more taken aback if he’d flung it into my face. 

“This is getting tedious. Don’t just stand there sucking air like a fish flopping on the bank of the Spindle,” he spat. **_“Take it.”_**

His acrid tone made my neck stiffen, my mouth snap shut and spurred me into motion. My hand was shaking so badly when I raised it that I couldn’t help but brush against his fingers as I tried to pluck the ball from them—his skin felt feverish hot. Perhaps he really is a dragon, I thought absently. But, the ball of flame was as cool as a marble; it licked at the pads of my fingers without any pain. The knot of tension in my stomach unclenched slightly as I held it between my fingers, staring at it. He looked at me with an expression of pure annoyance and sighed dramatically. 

“Well,” he said ungraciously, “you then, I suppose.” My eyes shot wide and my neck snapped back to look up at him. The ball of flame disappeared with a fizzled ‘pop’. I felt the sudden weight of his long, hot hand land across the back of my neck and I stumbled as he guided me firmly into motion, beside and slightly in front of him. He strode smoothly next to me, throwing a “Send the tribute up directly,” behind him to Una dismissively. 

I didn’t comprehend what was happening. I don’t think anyone had. I didn’t have a chance to even turn around and look for my parents before he took my wrist in his other hand—never removing the one from the back of my neck. The last thing I saw was Mary lifting her hand up toward me—her green eyes wide in disbelief—before the Dragon jerked me impatiently causing me to stumble as he dragged me back with him into thin air. 

~*~*~*~TBC~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This first chapter is very close to Novik’s original first chapter—she does such a fantastic job of world building that I stuck very closely to it. In some places in the story, I will be borrowing direct passages from the original. As the story moves forward and Sherlock and John have their say, it will be increasingly more original. The plot will be very similar, but with some notable exceptions. This will be a long, novel length story. I hope to update at least once a week and include art posts as well. 
> 
> Any feedback is always appreciated!


	2. The Tower

I found myself with my other hand pressed to my mouth, retching, when we stepped back out of the air. It seemed that popping in and out of existence did not agree with me.

When he let go of my arm, I bent double and vomited. I heard him step back and mutter in disgust “Oh, come now, really!” It seems I had spattered the toe of his fine leather boot. **_“Absolutely useless._** Stop heaving and clean up this filth.” And with a flourish of his coat he turned on his heel and stalked away, his heels echoing on stone. And then he was gone. 

I stayed there, wobbly on my feet, until I was sure that nothing else would come up. Then I spat, wiped my mouth with my sleeve and straightened up to stare. I was stood on a floor of stone. But, not just any stone—a fine white marble laced through with veins of dark grey and green. I’d never seen anything like it. It appeared to be made of one solid sheet. I was in a cavernous, round room at the foot of a vast curved staircase. Behind me were a set of impossibly tall wooden doors, polished and ornately carved. There were no knobs.

I was trapped inside the entryway of the Dragon’s tower.

There was no furniture in the room at all, certainly nothing I could use to wipe up the mess I had made of the floor. I shucked off my own waistcoat—it was already dirty anyway—and mopped up the pool of sick as best I could. Then, after a time kneeling there being terrified and more terrified, while nothing at all happened, I got up and crept cautiously up the stairs. If I could have taken any way out of the room but the one he had used I would have. But there wasn’t any. 

At the top of the stair was a short hallway, the floor had changed to a more usual but finely polished gray stone. My way was illuminated with an unfriendly pale white light from hanging lamps. They weren’t real lamps, I noticed—just big, rough chunks of clear polished stone that seemed to glow from the inside. They floated several feet above my head as I walked. There was only one arched doorway and it led to another set of stairs--tightly spiraling away from me, up and down. It seemed odd to me that one set of stairs led directly to another which might just take one back down again. On impulse, I began to trudge upward. 

I’m not sure how long I climbed, how many of the stone steps were eaten up by my feet. I encountered nothing but blank stone walls under my fingertips, worn smooth with time—not a door in sight. Just as I was about to stop and sit on a step to collect my thoughts, or even head back down, I spilled out onto a small landing with one rough, arched wooden door. This one had a knob. 

I pushed the door open and hesitantly looked in. But, it only opened to a small bare room with a narrow bed, a simple table, a dresser, and a wash basin. There was a large window across from me, and I could see the blue of the sky beyond. I ran to it and leaned out over the sill. 

I seemed to be at the very top of the Dragon’s tower. The tower stood on the foothills on the western border of his lands—opposite the Wood. All our long valley lay spread out to the east. From the window, I could trace the whole line of the Spindle, racing silver-blue across the countryside with the road a smudge of dusty brown next to it. Both ran together all the way across the Dragon’s land, disappearing in and out of the dapplings of forest and village until the road tapered out into nothing just before the huge, black tangle of the Wood. The river continued on into the darkness, vanished, and never came out again. 

There was Olsha, the town nearest the tower, a large blotting of houses a mile or more distant. Five other villages lay between that and my own Watson, with its wide village green where my parents and brothers were most likely still embroiled in the confusion—I could almost see the tables laid out for the feasting the Dragon hadn’t wanted to stay for, with my mother sobbing in my father’s arms, his face blank and distant. I slid to my knees and rested my forehead on the sill. Hot tears of anger and confusion washed over my cheeks and I wept like a child. 

I sobbed myself out until I had too much of a headache to go on crying. I was stiff and cold from being on that painfully hard, stone floor. My face was a mess of salty tears and snot from my running nose. I didn’t hesitate to wipe it off roughly on my shirt sleeves—they had already collected a patchwork of other smudges and stains. I sat down on the bed, trying to bring my thoughts into some sort of order.

 _I’m not a girl. He only takes girls._ It seemed a feeble and thin protest being that I **_was_** a boy and I **_had_** been taken. Certainly, he had only taken girls in the past; but, he was the Dragon—who was going to challenge him for diversifying? 

The room I found myself in was empty, but aired out and clean—as if its previous occupant had only vacated it mere moments before. They probably had. Someone else had lived here for ten years. And before her, some other girl. Now she had gone home to say goodbye to her family in the valley, and the room was mine. 

A single painting hung in a great gilt frame on the wall across from where I sat on the bed. It had no business being there, it made no sense in that tiny little room. And really, it wasn’t a proper picture at all, just a broad swath of pale green melting into gray-brown at the edges with one shinning, silver-blue line weaving across the middle in gentle curves. Narrower silver lines drew in from edges to meet it. I squinted at it and wondered if it was magic too. 

There were thin circles painted along the silver line, at vaguely familiar distances. After a moment I realized that the painting was of the valley—flattened down in the way that a bird might view it from far overhead. The circles were the villages. The silvery line was the Spindle! It ran from the gray-brown mountains at one edge of the painting to the darkness of the Wood at the other. The colors were brilliant and life-like. I could almost see the waves on the river, the glitter of sunlight on the crests. I leaned closer to it, more than half expecting to hear a gentle gurgle of water rising from the paint. It pulled my eyes. I wanted to look at it. It made me want to look at it. But I didn’t like it. The painting closed in my valley and looking at it made me feel how closed in I was too. 

I looked away. I couldn’t stay in the room. 

It occurred to me that I was painfully hungry. I hadn’t eaten a bite at breakfast—or at dinner or supper the night before for that matter. It had all been ash in my mouth. I was too worried about Mary. I hadn’t known to be worried about this. 

There were no servants in the tower—except me now, I supposed—so no one was going to get my dinner. Then the thought struck me— _would the Dragon expect me to get **his**?_ I could put together a basic supper for myself and make damn good tea, but I had never been a great shake at cookery. It had never been expected of me. 

My face heated as another thought occurred to me, an even worse thought than that: _what about **after** dinner?_ I had heard the stories—a man who takes a new 17-year-old girl every 10 years, of course there were stories! That she was to wait on him hand and foot and…other parts.

I knew what men and women did when they were alone together—I did have three older brothers and each one loved to talk more than the last. But, I had never been interested in…that. With a woman. So, I had ducked my head to my drinks, blushing, and tried to hide how confused I was in the subject and my feelings about it. I’d also heard the whispered stories about how there were men in the capitol city who sometimes chose to partner with other men, and that thought made me blush even deeper, stirring uncomfortable sensations deep in my belly. 

But now, I wished I had listened more closely to my brothers and the pub gossip about how things were done and what was expected. A man couldn’t go from wanting girls his entire (and long) life to wanting boys out of the blue, could he? Certainly after a couple a centuries a person’s tastes would be set. I’d certainly tried hard enough to spark my own interest in the village girls, Mary in particular. But, in my deepest thoughts, I’d always imagined my first nervous fumblings would be with another boy around my age— _Tom, the butcher’s boy_ , my mind eagerly supplied—both hesitant and laughing, but eager and willing. Certainly willing. 

I found myself imagining for one terrible moment the Dragon’s face so close to mine—even closer than when he he’d inspected me at the Taking—his blue eyes cold and glittering like ice, those thin, iron-hard fingers, so strangely warm, drawing my trousers away from my skin….What if all of him was fever-hot like that? What if I burned where he touched me? Reduced to embers by his eyes and his breath and his touch—

I shuddered away from my thoughts and stood up, rubbing my sweating palms upon my trousers. I looked down at the bed, and around at the small, close room with nowhere to hide. I hurried out and started cautiously down the staircase again. It sounds stupid to be afraid of going down a staircase, but I was terrified. I nearly went back to my room after all. But, suddenly—far too suddenly—I struck upon the very bottom of the stair. I hadn’t seen any other doorways. I seemed to have been walking for mere moments and I’d suddenly found myself in a cellar, identified by the coolness and the damp smell leeching out of the earthen floor. I was so shocked that it took me a moment to notice his thin frame silhouetted against the huge fireplace, shaped like a downturned mouth, full of flames that leapt hellishly high. 

“Took you long enough. I assume you found your room.” He was facing mostly toward the fire with his hands clasped behind his back, not bothering to turn around to look at me while he spoke. 

I unfroze from my spot at the bottom of the stair. 

“I—what?—yes, I—it was—“ I’m not sure exactly how I was going to finish that babbling sentence, but I didn’t get the chance to try. In my nervousness, I had lurched forward and managed to catch the seam of my trousers on a nail protruding from a nearby shelf. The jerk of it caused me to bang back against the wood and my feet to come out from under me, leaving me a crumpled mess on the ground. To add insult to injury, what seemed to be several jars of pickled beets crashed down around me soaking me in rank, red liquid.  


I blinked. And blinked again. I was terrified and confused and now I was covered in beet juice. Exhausted, I felt a laugh bubble up from between my lips. 

It wasn’t real laughter—I was half-hysterical, wrung-out six ways and hungry, my head aching as though I’d cracked my skull—perhaps one of the jars had—but I just couldn’t stop. 

“Are you _**deranged**_?” he said, in almost marveling tones. It seems the spectacle I had made of myself had finally drawn his attention away from the fire. He was staring at me as if I’d grown another head, his eyes sparkling with firelight. I don’t think anyone had laughed at him in over two hundred years. He stared at me, outraged as a cat whose tail I had just trod on. I only laughed harder.

He opened then closed his mouth, shook his head as if to clear it of dust, then opened it again, “I can’t imagine what is so amusing to you. Do you regularly make a habit of bathing in produce?”

My giggles tapered off, but I somehow felt a little less hollow and afraid. His voice was certainly annoyed and dripping with sarcasm, but he hadn’t attempted to throw me in the fire or even slap me for my insubordination. I sat there on the floor, in my sticky puddle, looking at him looking at me. His lips parted as if he was going to say something more but he seemed to change his mind. Instead, he turned and left abruptly, sweeping up the stairs leaving me there on the floor, as though he couldn’t think of what else to do with me. 

As I heard him retreat, his deep, silky voice called back “Breakfast at eight, dinner at one, supper at seven. Take them to the library. If you hear my violin, _**don’t**_ open the door.” 

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a feel for the terrain in this chapter--the next one will have a proper 'introduction' between John and Sherlock :)
> 
> Thank you everyone for the comments and kudos! As always, any feedback is much appreciated.


	3. Lirintalem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock get acquainted.

After I heard the sounds of him stalking up the stairs subside, I got myself up and looked around the room: it took my eyes a moment to adjust, because the fireplace was so damn bright and there weren’t any other lights. But, when I kept my back to the flames and blinked my eyes wider, I could start to make out the rest of the room. It was huge—divided into several alcoves with low walls, racks of full shining glass bottles and jars, casks of liquors, and barrels of wine. 

There were enough stores to feed a not so small army for over a month: crates of apples packed in straw, carrots and parsnips and potatoes in rough-hewn sacks and, long, braided ropes of onions. On a small table near the entrance of the room, I found a large book sat with a quill, inkpot, and an unlit candle. It seemed to be a ledger of records of all the stores, written in an elegant, feminine hand— _was this to be one of my duties then? Tracking the stock?_

At the bottom of the last full page, there was a note written very small in the same fine hand. I lit the candle with a long match from the fire, but still had to squint and bend down to make it out. 

_Breakfast at eight, dinner at one, supper at seven’—echoing what the Dragon had already told me—‘If you leave the meal laid in the library, five minutes before, you need not see him all the day. Do try not to be late as he can be a bit grumpy if one disturbs an experiment. Courage!_

Priceless advice, that— _Courage!_ I traced my fingers over her words. There was no need to say who “he” was. I found a bit of comfort in the idea that this girl had survived. I couldn’t remember what village the last girl had been taken from or what her name had been, and now I felt sorry for not knowing. Her ten years had started just as mine had—well, maybe not just as mine had—but she had made it through to the other side intact enough to offer advice to the next poor soul to be dragged here. I felt less alone that I had all day. 

If she could make it through, so could I. 

I realized that the Dragon hadn’t eaten at our village and it must have been nearly midday at this point—with all the confusion and the wandering and crying that I’d done since that morning. So, I gingerly set to figuring out dinner. 

I really wasn’t a great cook. 

My mother had taught me a few basic skills to help her in the kitchen—since she didn’t have a daughter—so I could knead a basic dough and perhaps boil a bland stew. Mary had attempted to tutor me in some more advanced recipes but even her patience and skill as a teacher had faltered in the face of my tipping and tripping and sloshing about the kitchen, catching my sleeve on fire on more than one occasion. I did, however, have a knack for gathering. I knew how to tell the fresh from the rotten, the vegetables that were just a day from ripe from the ones a few hours past their peak, and I could always manage to pick out which fruit would be the sweetest. 

I began to wander without direction through the aisles. I’d never had so many stores to choose from –I’d actually never seen so much food in one place before, or of such variety! There were even great drawers of spices, some were familiar and smelled like Midwinter cake but others I had never tasted or smelled before. There was also a whole barrel of fresh, light pink salt. 

At the very back of the room, there was a strangely cold place—colder than the natural chill of being below ground. There I found meat hanging from metal hooks on the celling, great sides of venison, two large hams, and a dozen or so hares; there was also a crate full of straw and brown, speckled eggs. On a small, rough wooden table I found a covered pot with a note laid on top. ‘A small gift of welcome’. More help from my anonymous friend then. 

I almost cried in relief when I removed the lid to find a full pot of rabbit and buckwheat and small peas stewed together. When I tasted it a groan left my lips—it tasted like a feast! So salty and seasoned and meltingly tender. Behind the pot, I found a whole loaf of fresh-baked bread, heavy with seeds and grains, wrapped in a woven cloth. I sent a mental thank you to my friend. 

I didn’t know how to make food like that at all. I started sweating realizing that the Dragon would probably expect it. 

I carried the pot to the metal rack above the fire to start it reheating. I put a couple eggs in a dish and into the oven to bake—that much I did know how to do. I managed to clean up the worst of the spilled beets off of the floor, turning over the dirt to hide the rest. Next, I laid out a tray with a bowl and a spoon. While I waited for the rabbit to heat-up, I tore off the end of the loaf of bread and ate it with a small apple and some hard cheese—it was just as delicious as it looked. When the rabbit was ready, I set it out on the tray with butter, an apple chopped-up with some cinnamon, and sliced the rest of the bread. When everything was on the tray it didn’t look half bad. I even felt a little proud of myself. 

I took it up the stairs—nosing my feet slowly up each stair, carefully. I had been picking my way upwards for what must have been five minutes or more before I realized that I didn’t know where the library was. But, in one more circuit of the spiral, my previous suspicions seemed to be confirmed as I stepped onto a landing with a great wooden door—this staircase was magical. Doors only seemed to appear if you knew where you were going—or needed them to be there—while all the others seemed to pop out of existence until they were called on again. 

I balanced the tray with one hand and my hip against the wall as I reached for the handle. I halted and thought it was probably smarter to knock first. I lifted my knuckles to the wood and hesitated. 

“Stop waffling and bring it in here.” I nearly dropped the tray. “Your indecisive breathing is becoming tedious and distracting.”

Turning the handle, I pushed the door into a room full of books. Wooden shelves stretched from floor to ceiling with them, tables overflowed with them, and teetering stacks littered the floor. It smelled of dust and there were only a few narrow windows to let the light in. A human skull was perched above the fireplace. In the midst of it all, flanked by piles of open and discarded books, stood the Dragon. He was stood, as if frozen in stone, staring with narrowed eyes at the bookcase in front of him, his hands steepled under his chin, pointer fingers resting on his lips. He seemed to be glaring a question of the books, which they were refusing to answer for him. 

I felt betrayed by the advice from the note. I’d somehow assumed that the Dragon would conveniently keep out of the way until I’d had the chance to put down his meal and scurry back to my room out of sight.

He hadn’t turned to look at me. He hadn’t given any sign at all that he had noticed I’d entered the room. I wanted to set the tray down quietly and escape. But, that would probably be seen as rude. And, more importantly, I had no idea where to set it. Every available surface was covered with tomes and quills and parchment and scraps. There didn’t seem to be a flat space anywhere large enough to set a lunch. I lingered in the doorway instead. 

“I—“ my voice croaked. I cleared my throat. “I’ve brought dinner.”

“Really?” he drawled, cuttingly, still without moving. “Without managing to fall into a pit along the way? I’m astonished.” He finally moved—concentration broken—casting himself dramatically into a grand leather chair that I hadn’t noticed at his side, as it was mostly hidden by the mess. He only then looked up at me and frowned, his gaze working me over. “Or _**did**_ you fall into a pit?”

I suddenly felt all of the stains littering my clothes like a physical weight, though it wasn’t anything out of the usual for me. “I didn’t—there’s not really a pit here is there?”

He blinked at me. His face clearly stated what he thought of me. _Idiot._

“I was—I had to cook and clean up—“ I tried to explain.

“Obviously,” He reached over and picked up a volume as long as my forearm and began to leaf through the gold-edged pages. 

“Though, I don’t see how you could have managed to smudge flour on your chin and forehead, since you certainly did not bake that bread yourself. Though, judging by the cobweb in your hair you most likely poked your nose into every nook and cranny and cabinet in the cellar—that would explain why you don’t seem to have had the time to wash off the beet juice from that spectacular display of grace earlier—though I can see, from the dirt on your knees, that you did at least clean up that mess. I’m not quite sure what you used for it, you seem to like creative methods, evidenced by the fact that you inventively used the waistcoat you were wearing earlier to mop your stomach contents out of my entry way—and yet you still managed to splash some of it onto your shirtsleeves! How could you not have noticed that when you were blubbering snot into them? The smell alone! Add that to the sap and mud from your travels this morning and it’s no wonder that you nervously tugged at your top button until it fell off—a nervous habit of yours, did you realize? 

You really do seem to have a talent for accumulating filth and disarray and you obviously have no sense or awareness of your surroundings or you would have noticed that you have a rather large rip in the side of your trousers, bordering on indecent I might add, from that nail you decided to run yourself into. And, you’d better put that down before your shoulder—injured 9, perhaps 8, but most likely 9 years ago in a wood-cutting accident while assisting your father —gives out and you make as big a mess out of my books as you have yourself.”

I stood frozen, feeling naked and exposed. He turned another page of his book, never having looked at me once during his assessment.

“That…was amazing.” My mouth had recovered before my brain. 

He paused midway through flipping his page. “That’s not how people normally react.”

“Are you psychic?”

“Certainly not. One doesn’t need to waste magic or call on psychic powers for something so blatantly obvious, if one bothered to observe correctly.”

“How did you know about my shoulder?”

“Simple. You hold that side more stiffly and favor your right, despite being left-handed—shown by the callouses on your palms and the indents on your thumb and middle finger, distinctly the kind one would get from chopping wood consistently—more than any single family would need. So then, a professional service. Delivering to your whole village. You are too young to be responsible for the whole village yourself—woodcutter is a heritable station—so you were assisting your father in his duties. Boys usually begin to work for their fathers at age seven, but you are the youngest in your family—you have a handful of older brothers, as evidenced by your general habit of flinching—so your mother wouldn’t have wanted to let you join in until you were a bit older, so you were eight. I would have said nine, but you hold yourself with a stubbornness that speaks of not wanted to be coddled, so you would have insisted at eight. This highly physical job was the most likely place you would have been injured, and it most likely happened in the first year of work when you were still new and might easily strike yourself with the recoil of your own axe, still getting accustomed to the weight. That, plus your current muscle tone and the fact that it doesn’t seem to bother you unless you hold something heavy for an extended period of time tells me that it is long healed. So, a woodcutter’s son with a 9-year-healed wound in your left shoulder from a self-inflicted axe wound.” He turned another page. 

“Brilliant.” I breathed. 

“Did you know you do that out-loud?” The Dragon had finally looked up from his book, trapping my gaze with his own. I felt nervousness coil back into my belly at his comment, wondering if I had overstepped. I broke the eye contact. 

“Now, the tray, before you drop it.” He gestured vaguely to a table some distance to his right which I now saw—or which had only just appeared—a small clearing, just big enough to lay out his dinner. I picked my way across the room, ducking my head as I passed the chair in which he was perched. 

As I laid out the meal on the table, my stomach sank. With all the time that had passed, everything had gone cold, except for the butter which had softened into a puddle that was running into my cinnamon apple. The stew had a thin layer of fat congealing on the surface and even the lovely bread seemed to wilt at its current company. 

I stared down at the mess in front of me, wondering what to do. There really was no saving it…perhaps I should take it back down and start again? How angry would he be? I turned to look and nearly yelped out loud; he was standing directly behind me, peering haughtily over my shoulder. 

“Well, I can see why you were hesitating at the door,” he reached past me and lifted a spoonful of the cooled stew, letting it fall back into the bowl in great congealed globs. “ _ **You**_ would make a better meal than this.”

I felt my face drain of blood, gripping white-knuckled to the empty tray before I remembered that the stories weren’t true. He didn’t really eat people. Right? 

“I’m not much of a cook.” I gestured weakly at the table, as if I needed to provide more evidence for my statement. He snorted.

“Is there anything that you –can- do? Or are you really as useless as you seem?”

If only I had been taught how to serve. If only I had tried a little harder to learn to cook from Mary. If only I had had some warning that –this- year he’d take a fancy to short, stubborn boys instead of beautiful, kind girls. If only I wasn’t so wrong-footed from his calculated undressing of my secrets. If only I hadn’t laughed at him in the cellar and seen that he wasn’t really going to serve me up for supper. If only any of those things had happened, I might have just turned red from ear to toe and slunk away. 

Instead…I got angry. 

I flung the tray down on the table and shouted, “Why the hell did you take me then!? Why didn’t you take Mary!?”

I snapped my mouth shut so quick that my teeth clacked painfully. Ashamed of myself. Horrified. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean that he should go back and get Mary. I would apologize and go get another tray—

“Who?” He looked earnestly perplexed. 

I gaped at him. “Mary!” He only blinked at me as though I was giving him more evidence of my idiocy. Heat rose on the back of my neck and I forgot my noble intentions from a moment before. “You were going to take _**her**_! She’s the clever one! And, gracious and beautiful and a splendid cook and—oh, not to mention, she’s a _**girl!**_ ”

He was looking more annoyed with every word. “Yes,” he bit out. “I do recall her and that she, as you so _**brilliantly**_ observed, is ‘a girl’. Why the hell should that matter?”

I opened my mouth to tell him exactly why that did, in fact, matter but he spat “Enough!” with the force of a book being slammed shut. “You valley people are all so tedious. But, you are really proving to be a veritable paragon of incompetence. Why I even bother!”

“Then you don’t need to keep me!” I shouted back, glaring up into his face.

“That, I am afraid, is where you are very wrong.” 

He seized my wrist and whipped me around. I struggled to keep my feet. He was suddenly pressed close behind me, a column of oppressive heat at my back. His grip on my wrist was like an iron shackle as he held my arm out above the table in front of us. His other hand was spread wide, pressed firm against the flat of my stomach just under my ribs, pinning me to his front. I sucked in a breath, rigid and still as a wild stag. My free hand balled into a fist of its own volition, ready to defend myself. 

He was so tall that I felt the sharpness of his jaw move against the top of my head when he next spoke. His hot breath tickled the tiny hairs on the back of my left ear. “ _Lirintalem_.” He gave my arm a rough shake, releasing some of the coiled tightness in it. “Say it with me.”

“Wha—?” He shook me again, pressing his hand more forcefully against my stomach and crowding me tighter from behind. I couldn’t think. The heat of his hand was burning through my shirt and spreading through my gut. He put his mouth against my ear and whispered, terribly, “ _ **Say it!**_ ”

As if I no longer had control over myself, I found my mouth forming the unfamiliar word, “ _Lirintalem_ ,” as he breathed it into my ear, still holding my hand over the table. Directly over the ruined meal. 

The air over the food pinched and rippled. It was horrible to see, as if the whole world was just a pond that he could throw pebbles in for his own amusement. When the air had smoothed again, the food was all changed. My sad attempt at baked eggs was replaced by a full roast chicken, steaming hot and topped with herbs. The mess of rabbit stew was usurped by fresh carrots and spring beans—even though they were five months out of season. A pristine little apple tart with the fruit sliced paper thin, dotted with raisin and nuts, was sitting smugly next to a saucer of pale yellow custard. My body hummed with a strange energy as I stared down at the table.

Then he let go of me. 

My bones seemed to slump and curve under my own weight. I staggered, clutching at the edge of the table. My lungs were empty, as if a fist was clenched around them—I felt like I’d been squeezed for juice, like a lemon. Warm blackness prickled at the corners of my sight, half-way to fainting. 

I only vaguely registered that he had moved forward and was scowling down at dishes. He picked up a green bean between his fingers, his face a battle of bemusement and annoyance. 

“What—what did you do to me?” I panted, when I had managed to fill my lungs again. 

“Oh, stop whining,” He said, tossing the bean over his shoulder, and moving away dismissively. “It’s nothing more than a simple charm. Nothing to get worked up over.” He face was again a mask of purposefully haughty indifference. He flung himself back into his chair—the fantastic new dinner seemingly forgotten—and flicked his hand absently at the door as he made to settle back into his book again. “All right, get out. I can see that you’ll be wasting an inordinate amount of my time, but I’ve had enough for today.”

I was more than happy to obey. 

~*~*~*~TBC~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the comments and kudos. As always, any feedback is much appreciated.


	4. Still as Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Boredom is a hell of a thing.

After escaping from the library on unsteady legs, I retreated as fast as I could to my cold, little room—which felt like a sanctuary in comparison—and managed to drag the dresser in front of the door before I fell into bed. If the Dragon came for me while I slept, I didn’t hear a thing. 

I tossed and turned restlessly, dreaming of ice blue eyes and a horrible, hot fire pressed against my back as I tried to fight my way free—growing ever weaker, my energy being absorbed bit after bit by the fire. I woke in a tangled sweat with the word _lirintalem_ on my tongue, trapped behind my gritted teeth. 

I had no desire to please him. But, I desperately wanted to keep him from doing –that- to me ever again, whatever that was. 

It was with this goal in mind, that I threw myself into learning to cook full force. I didn’t see the Dragon for another four days, nearly every waking minute of which I spent in the cellar kitchen. The first morning after my disastrous showing in the library I found a collection of cookbooks on the small worn table with the ledger—whether the Dragon had put them there or I just hadn’t noticed them before, I couldn’t tell you. 

I found myself working frantically through every recipe in them, one after another—not caring if I wasted food, there were more than ample supplies—trying to produce something, anything that would keep him from using that spell on me again. Roasts and stews and puddings, most spectacular failures but a couple had been close enough to edible. 

I followed the advice of my anonymous friend and had the meals lain in the library five minutes to the hour and escaped to my room or the kitchen again as quick as I could. 

He might very well have left the tower completely without my knowledge. 

That first morning, when I brought his breakfast of fried eggs, ham, and beans to library, I was greeted by the tray still full of the previous afternoon’s dinner, seemingly untouched. I removed the cold meal and set the new one in its place, only to return with that afternoon’s dinner of Sheppard’s pie to see the full breakfast I had left still uneaten as well. I knew my cooking was subpar but even a wizard had to eat, didn’t he? I really would have thought him gone, if it weren’t for the ever shifting configuration of books in the library.

This pattern continued for the next two days, at which point I was on the verge of wondering if I should stop wasting food and give up. I would have too, if I hadn’t gone to replace his cold supper with the next morning’s breakfast and noticed that there was a distinctive bite-mark taken out of the cherry torte. There may have also been fewer honey-glazed carrots than there had been the night before. 

So, I continued. 

I also made an attempt at dusting and sweeping, but the Tower didn’t seem to need it—no dirt had gathered in any of the corners or on the tops of the elaborate framed paintings. Despite that, I still managed to accumulate my usual amount of filth. I _did_ make an effort to tidy up as often as I could though. I had found some homespun clothes in the bottom of the dresser in my room which fit me more or less—a bit long in the arm, but easy enough to roll up. 

Fear and work weren’t all bad, as far as companions went. They were better than loneliness and kept me from ruminating on my deeper anxieties. 

I wouldn’t see my mother and father, my brothers or Mary again. Not for ten years, and even then, I knew that I wouldn’t go back to them to stay. By then, the strange alchemy that acted on all the Dragon’s girls before me would have taken hold, making me into someone my family would not recognize. That I would not recognize. At least while I was bent over my cookbooks or chopping onions or sweating in front of the oven, I wouldn’t have to worry about that. 

When it finally sunk in, after a few days, that he wasn’t going to fling open my door at any moment or use that spell on me at every meal, I stopped cooking in such a terrified frenzy and barring my door with furniture. But then something even worse took hold.

I was bored. 

I spent my long, empty mornings looking out of my window, across the valley. I could see the specks of men from Olsha working in the fields and the small fluffy white clouds of sheep on the crest of a hill. It was life as usual for the people outside of the Tower. I watched them for hours then had a quiet weep to myself. But, even grief had become mundane. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

My family hadn’t been poor or rich; we’d had seven books on our mantle when I was growing up, and I’d only ever had the patience to read four of them. I had spent every day of my life more out-of-doors than not, even in the muck of rain and in cold winter snows. But, I didn’t have that option now. 

That afternoon, after I dropped off the dinner tray in the library and removed the nearly intact breakfast—a bite had been taken from one of the sausages—I looked dispassionately over the shelves. 

Surely there could be no harm in me borrowing one. The other girls must have taken books to read, right? And, really, how would he even know if one was missing for a day or two? There were thousands of them!

So, I straightened and boldly went to a shelf. I raised my hand and felt it pulled to a book that nearly begged to be touched. It was worn with age, but beautifully bound in a burnished leather, the color of wheat, which glowed faintly in the candlelight, rich and warm and inviting. I hesitated, holding it in my arms. It was far nicer and heavier than any of the books my family had owned. I carried it away with me up to my room, half-guilty and trying to convince myself I wasn’t doing anything wrong. 

Then I opened it and felt very stupid. 

I couldn’t understand it at all. Not because it was in a different language or because I didn’t recognize the words or know what they meant—I did understand them. I understood them and everything I was reading for about the first three pages until I suddenly realized that I had no clue what the book was about. I had no idea what I had just read.

I shook my head and turned back to the first page again. And, once more, I was sure that I understood it. All of it made perfect sense to me—better than perfect sense. It had the feeling of truth and rightness and everything that I had known but never understood, never been able to put into words. I made it to the fifth page this time before I realized, again, that I couldn’t have told anyone what had been on the first page or even the paragraph before. 

I glared down at the book in front of me. Was everything in this Tower determined to make me feel like an idiot?

I huffed and turned back to the first page again. This time, I began to read out loud, like my mother used to do for me. The words tumbled out of my mouth in a musical rhythm, quite unlike my usual way of speaking, beautiful and melting on the tongue like sugared fruit sweets. I felt like I was just on the edge of getting it, of understanding everything, when my door crashed open. 

I was sitting on my bed under the window for light with the book clutched to my chest, guilty and embarrassed as the time my father had caught me with my hand in my pants when I was only 12, mouth frozen open on the last syllable I had read. The Dragon was framed in the doorway, seething. His eyes were flashing and angry, his hand flung out toward me and he called out, “ _Twalidetal_!”

The book twitched and jerked and tried to jump out of my hands, like a fresh-caught wild hare—attempting to fly across the room to him. Some misguided instinct made me cling to it even harder. It wriggled against me, but stupidly obstinate, I gave it a hard jerk and it settled back into my arms, still throbbing with a nervous vitality. 

I barely registered the mingling of shock and anger on his face before I was slammed back, flat down against my pillows. His hand was pressed hard down on my collarbone, pinning me easily to the bed, and his eyes glittered as he loomed over me. 

“So,” he breathed, silkily, as he pried the book from my frozen fingers and tossed it with a lazy flip so it landed upon the side table. “So…” 

I swallowed. My throat struggled to work against his hand. 

“What’s your name, boy?” It hadn’t occurred to me that he’d never asked me for it before.

“John,” I gasped out, “John…of Watson.”

“John,” he murmured, bending low to me. He was so intimately in my space that I would have thought that he was going to kiss me if it weren’t for how his whole posture spoke of boiling rage. “How dull. What a boring and ordinary name. Just the kind of name that one wouldn’t question twice. Tell me, _‘John’_ , where are you really from? Did the Falcon send you? It’s just the thing that he would do—Or, was it perhaps the king himself?” 

“I—what?” I was always so verbose in his presence. 

“I _**will**_ find out,” he spat. “However skillful your master’s spell, how intricate the story you two have woven, it will have holes in it. And, I am ever so observant of details. Your ‘ _ **family**_ ’—” he rolled his eyes at the word, “—may think that they remember you, but they don’t. Not really. They won’t have all of the things of a child’s life. A pair of favorite mittens, a baby blanket, or a worn out cap, a collection of broken toys—I won’t find those things in your house, will I, John?”

“All my toys were broken!” I seized on the only part of this that I could. “And, my clothes were always worn out—they were second-hand from my brothers—then I would muss them up further, of course, you see how I manage to get dirty, though I’ve no idea why—“ 

He shoved me hard against the bed, cutting off my rambling. “ _ **Don’t lie to me!**_ ” he hissed, leaning even closer. “I will tear the truth out of your throat—“

His fingers were firm on my neck, burning into my flesh, his leg on the bed between mine. Trapping me. Instinct drove me up. In a surge of terror, I threw my forearms against his chest and shoved with the full weight of my body—dense with muscle from physical labor—heaving us both off the bed and into an undignified pile on the floor. I was up like a rabbit, scrambling from the tangle of our limbs and out of the door.

I thundered down the stairs. I didn’t know where I was going. I couldn’t have gotten out the front door, and there was no way out of the cellar. ‘I need a place to hide! Any place!’ and, no sooner than I had thought it than I ran flat into a door. Scrambling for the handle, I shoved myself through it. 

I seem to have found a laboratory, dim with smoke, hissing fumes, and bubbling sounds. I flung myself desperately under one of the tables in a dark corner behind a high cabinet and pulled my limbs into my body, squeezing my eyes shut, and willing myself to be as small and inconspicuous as possible. 

I’d made sure to close the door, hoping that would make it disappear from the stair behind me. But, he was the Dragon. There was no hiding from the Dragon in his own Tower. 

I heard the door creak open and the sound of him sweeping into the room, heels snapping hard against the stone. I opened my eyes and peeked out from my hiding place. His eyes were cold and angry, searching the room, and his face was painted a strange, ethereal blue by the magical fires. He moved with a steady, unhurried step toward the table under which I was crouched. As he rounded the edge, I darted out, bowling past him—some vague notion of trying for the door—and careened into a narrow shelf on the wall. One of the stoppered bottles struck my shoulder and smashed to the ground at my feet. 

Thick, gray smoke crawled up my ankles to billow around me, into my nose and mouth, choking me. It stung at my eyes but I couldn’t blink or cry it away. I couldn’t even reach up to rub them, my arms refused to cooperate. A cough caught halfway in my throat and hovered there. My whole body froze, still in an uncomfortable running half-crouch. 

I heard the irritated sigh before the Dragon’s footsteps, very faintly and far-off as he came and stood over me. He stood there, looking at me with cold impatience. I didn’t try to guess what he would do—I couldn’t really. I couldn’t think very clearly at all. The world was very gray and still for me. 

“No,” he opined after a moment, “—no, you can’t possibly be a spy.”

He blinked. Then turned and left me there. I couldn’t have told you how long—an hour, a week, a year—then at last he returned, with a displeased set to his mouth. He held a small, filthy, scrap of a thing that used to be a stuffed hedgehog, knitted of wool and filled with straw—at least, that’s what it was before I dragged it behind me everywhere I went for the first eight years of my life. 

“So, not a spy. Only a moron.” He tossed the doll behind him.

He reached out and laid his hand on my head and said, “ _Tezavon tahozh, tezavon tahzh kivi, kivi lilush._ ”

Well, he didn’t _say_ it so much as _chant_ it in that deep rumbling voice of his. As he spoke, the gray began to leech out of my vision and the cough in my throat pushed past my lips as I unfroze, coming back to the world. His hand was still hot on my scalp, fingers laced into my hair. I ducked my head, shying out from underneath it. But, I didn’t try to run.  


He could have just left me stuck in stone if he had wanted to do something terrible to me. He seemed to have calmed down a bit in his time away. At least, he seemed to have given up on the idea that I was any sort of spy—and what type of a person thought people were sending spies after him? Much less the king! Wasn’t he the king’s wizard?

Instead, he was turning me over again with that undressing and calculating look from before—only this time there was a slight frown to his brow, as if he wasn’t accustomed to having to rethink his assessments. 

“And now, you will tell me what exactly you thought you were doing. Taking that book,” He said. His eyes were still suspicious. 

“I—I was bored.” I wished I had a better explanation. “I thought I might read a book. I…I didn’t see any harm in it…” I trailed off at the look on his face. 

“You were bored.” He drawled the last word with a mountain of incredulity, “You were uprooted from your home, ripped away from your loved ones, and trapped in a tower by the most powerful wizard in world…and you were bored? And so, just by chance, you decided to take Doyle’s _Summoning_ off the shelf for a bit of light reading?” 

I nodded. 

“What an unequaled gift for disaster you have.” He said it in a marveling tone, tilting his head to get a different angle on me. I felt the heat of embarrassment creep across my chest, but I made myself hold his gaze. I was tired of ducking my head and avoiding his eyes like a quivering maiden in a song. I was tired of being afraid. 

“Well, if that’s the way it’s going to be,” he smirked, “then we had better get started. I had planned to wait a year or two, a period of adjustment, but that seems to be an unwise course—you’re likely to careen into a well and get eaten by selkies tomorrow on your way to the larder.” The look of excitement in his eyes as he said this was unnerving. I was as confused as I had ever been. What were we starting? And, why might I need time to adjust to it? 

Abruptly, he turned on his heel and made for the door. “Clean that up,” he gestured vaguely at the broken shards of the bottle still littered around my feet, “Then come to the library.” He paused. “And, _**don’t**_ touch anything else.” Then he was gone, the flourish of his coat trailing behind him. 

~*~*~*~TBC~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins. 
> 
> I'm a fan of slow, burning build-ups--but next chapter will introduce some new characters and answer a few questions. 
> 
> Thanks again for the kudos and comments, they really do keep me writing. This work is un-betad so all mistakes are my own. Any feedback is always appreciated!  
> \--muckette


	5. Trappings

The book I’d borrowed was back in its place on the shelf when at last I slipped into the library. He was flitting about like a moth. He paused his rather energetic pacing to glace at me. 

“We’ll begin with that, then,” he flicked his hand to indicate _all_ of me. I looked down at myself. My breeches were streaked with wet tracks from the mopping up I had done in the library. I’d also managed to tear the cuff of my over-long shirt on a shard of the broken glass. Across my midsection was a large dark swatch of grease with bits of egg—I’d dropped my first attempt at making his breakfast and my shirt had caught it before it hit the floor. “There’s no sense in me being offended every time I look at you.”

I bit my cheek to keep from apologizing—if I began apologizing for looking a mess, I’d be apologizing for the rest of my life.

I could tell, even from my small time in the Tower, that he was a man who loved beautiful things. Despite the general disarray of his books and papers, they were all well-kept. Moreover, each one was unique as a fingerprint: their leather bindings in different colors, their clasps and hinges and tassels were made of silver and gold and sometimes dotted with small chips of gemstones. They ranged in size from that of a dinner table to the one small green volume not quite the length of my pinky finger. Anywhere one might look—from the delicate hand-blown glass cups from which the Dragon drank his gin, to the grand, painted ceiling of the entryway—it was all as devastatingly beautiful as the man among them. 

I was the only stain on this perfection. 

He beckoned me over, impatiently to stand before him. Once again, I found myself spun around with my back to his chest. I tensed, remembering the last unpleasant time we had been in this position.

I felt his fingers trace down my forearms to take hold of my wrists, lifting my hands and crossing them over my chest, fingertips on each opposite shoulder. One of his hands lingered on my shoulder, just out of reach of my own, while I felt the other circle around to press firmly against my core under my ribs once again. I let him move me but made no effort to help, allowing the heat of him to overwhelm me. 

“Now, say it with me.” He breathed the word “ _Vanastalem._ ” His voice had the same resonance as before—I heard it in my ears but also felt it vibrate down my back into my gut, right behind his long, thin fingers. 

I bit the inside of my cheek and stared forward in mute rebellion. He may be able to do this to me, but I didn’t have to be cooperative. All the same, I felt the word right behind my teeth straining to burst out. 

“I may have to put up with ineptitude and stubbornness, but I will not tolerate spinelessness. Say it.”

He was baiting me. He knew he was and I knew he was. That didn’t stop it from working. 

I squeezed my eyes closed and exhaled “ _Vanastalem_ ” as the word rumbled in his chest behind me. I felt the word swelling in my core, the place where his palm rested. It pooled there until it surged up my throat and fountained out of my mouth. The air around me began to kink and curl and spiral, twisting around my body. My clothes grew constricting and heavy, the fabric seeming to extend and cinch and fold and transform. 

I sank to the ground gasping and found myself cushioned by strangely voluminous breeches of a lush, burgundy silk. My chest felt pinched inside of the heavy, velvet material of the new waistcoat and coat, thick with a gaudy gold brocade and dotted with actual pearls. A lace cravat, cinched with a giant ruby was practically strangling me. From the knee down, my legs were coated in the thinnest of cream wool stockings—I blushed at the way they clung to my calves and ankles, making my legs appear strangely smooth and feminine—and my large, awkward feet were wrapped in heeled, silk slippers. 

I looked an absolute fop. 

Panting and boneless, I stared dully at the Dragon’s boots. From my close vantage point on the floor, I could see that the tooled black leather was embossed with tiny, intricate silver vines. I heard a huff of a laugh from above me and glowered in indignation. 

“ _Really?_ Well, if that’s your fancy.” I could feel the smirk in his words, seemingly amused by his handy work. “At least you are no longer filthy. Do try to keep yourself in a decent state from now on. Tomorrow, we’ll try another one.”

It was clearly a dismissal. The boots turned and walked away from me. I heard him fall into the large leather chair before a jovial string of violin notes filled the air, with me still a drained puddle of silks among his books. I was grateful he seemed to be done with me because I had nothing left to give. I briefly considered crawling out of the room, but I made myself climb to my feet—shaky as a fawn learning to walk—and hobbled from the room on the ridiculous, heeled shoes. 

The aching fog didn’t leave me all that evening. It took me an inordinate amount of time to strip off the garish attire, tossing the trappings into the corner where the coat was so stiff it practically stood up on its own. I threw the heeled shoes straight out of the window.

In a surly and exhausted huff, I wrapped myself naked in my bedclothes and curled into a fitful sleep.

I stayed in my tiny room and thought that if the Dragon wanted supper then he could shove off and make it himself. I dreamt of the fairy stories I was told as a child, of vampires and incubi that drained the life energy from their victims. This must be why he continued to take girls. I imagined that over the course of ten years with this treatment a person would be tapped dry of their humanity. Though, why he’d waste magic on such trivialities as stockings and cravats, I had not a clue. He must really like pretty things. 

I woke burrowed deep in my nest of blankets, grumpy and mussed, blinking in the pale morning light.

I glared at the pile of ridiculous fabrics in the corner. I was not climbing back into that get-up. Anyway, I’d ripped the stockings and torn the buttons off the under tunic in the haste to be out of them the night before. 

Sighing, I pulled myself from the bed, still wrapped in a blanket, and trudged to the dresser. It was mostly filled with dresses and underclothes for girls, but in the top drawer were the clothes I had worn to the Taking. I’d washed them and tucked them away as a last vestige of home in this unfamiliar world. Now, I pulled them out and climbed into them, reveling in the looseness about the collar and slightly rough texture of the fabric. This felt like me. 

I frowned when I felt a cool breeze kiss my thigh, remembering the tear in the trousers from when I’d caught them on the nail in the cellar. The mending-basket stood untouched upon the dresser. When I opened it, laying atop the needles and spools of thread, was a single scrap of paper. A note written out in the elegant hand of my friend from the kitchen. 

_You are afraid right now, don’t be! He will never lay a hand on you. He will only want you to make him a nice supper and keep yourself pretty. He won’t think to give you anything to wear—he doesn’t seem to think of the little things like that—but, you should be able to find a few nice things in the guest chambers and you can make them over to fit you. He won’t bother you much at all! Sometimes he’s gone for weeks at a time and he’s barely said a hundred words to me in the past ten years. I think he wants company…but not much of it. Just, bring his meals on time and avoid him when you can, and he will never ask anything more of you._

I stood holding the note in my shaking hands. I remembered the way he had sought me out in the cellar, the way he had catalogued me in the library, the hot press of his hand on my stomach—holding me to him, the way his breath whispered against my ear, the feeling of him pinning me to the bed, the way he had dragged spells from my throat and energy from my body…

I had been wrong. He hadn’t done this to any of the girls at all. 

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I lied. No new characters in this chapter. This was originally the first part of the next chapter, but it got ridiculously long and didn't seem to fit. I plan to post the next chapter on Monday. But, here's a little something to tide you over on the weekend ;)
> 
> As always, this is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> Your comments and kudos keep me going! Thanks for all the love :)


	6. My Hero

I felt myself becoming desperate all over again. The knowledge that this was new, that he was deviating, that I was not just another captive— _only this time with man bits!_ —had me searching for escape. If he hadn’t done this to the others, I had no road map for what to expect. But, getting out of the Tower didn’t become easier just because I wanted it more. 

After mending my trousers with a sloppy line of stitches that would have had my mother tittering, I found myself again in the entryway in front of the great double doors. I tried working my fingers between them, then the crack between the wood and the marble floor, but all that earned me was three splinters and a bent back thumbnail. I ran at them a few times with my good shoulder, but they didn’t budge an inch. I scoured the space for something, anything I might use as a lever to pry them open. But, even as I searched, I knew that the same magic that had been used to dress me up like a doll would also keep me sealed inside the Tower. 

Still, when I got to the kitchen, I ran my palms along each of the rough stone walls, into every dark corner, looking for some opening, some little crack that might indicate a secret escape tunnel— _all castles had secret tunnels, didn’t they?_ But, if there was one, I didn’t find it. I went so far as to shove the great iron cap off of the rubbish chute and peer down. Deep below, the yellow-gold of a roaring fire gleamed. 

There was no escape for me. 

Resigned, I knew I had to bring the Dragon his breakfast so that he could steadfastly ignore it in favor of feasting on my life-force. But I didn’t have to be happy about it. I threw a couple of pieces of bread, toasted to blackness, on the serving tray and angrily pounded up the stairs to the library. 

When I shouldered into the room with the tray, he was standing at the window with his back to me. His violin was resting on his shoulder, the bow suspended in midair above the instrument as if he’d forgotten he was holding them. His shoulders were stiff with irritation as he glared through the glass. 

Still in my huff, I dropped the plate of toast onto the table with a clatter and made to remove the previous day’s leavings as noisily as possible. 

“Go upstairs.” His voice was hard and sharp, his eyes not moving from the window. 

“What?”

“Have you grown suddenly deaf? Or are you purposefully being difficult?” he snapped. “Leave that and get yourself upstairs. Close the door. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Just keep to your room until I summon you.” He turned to me, his eyes full of cold, barely suppressed rage. “Go!”

He didn’t have to tell me again.

I’d barely stepped on the stair before I was tumbling into my room, grinning like a child who’d just escaped a whipping. Falling onto my bed, I realized that I still had the heavy, metal breakfast tray. I couldn’t very well take it back to the kitchen—I was under strict orders to sit on my arse today, more or less—so, I tossed it onto the ground next to the bed and kicked up my feet. 

Glancing out the window, I noticed a cloud of dust on the road coming to the Tower. _Was that what the Dragon had been watching with such distaste?_

There were roughly a dozen horses carrying mounted men in armor. In the center, was a great covered carriage, almost like a house on wheels, tethered to a team of large, beautiful stallions. The whole party was sporting grey and brilliant, emerald green colors. As the carriage drew closer, I could make out a crest emblazoned on the door—a large, green, serpent-like creature with many heads.

From far above, I heard the horses chitter and chuff when they were pulled up short in front of the great front doors just as they swung open. I knelt on my bed and leaned as far as I dared out of the open window to peer down. I saw the Dragon standing tall and impressive on the threshold, his overcoat fluttering around him again— _did he seriously put that on just to look extra dramatic?_

The carriage doors opened, and out slid a young man with dark, swept back hair and a long, green cloak. He jumped down, ignoring the stairs that his footmen had put out for him, and traipsed toward the doors of the Tower. His stride didn’t even break as he snatched the sword a servant held out to him on open palms, swinging it in a few wide, showy arcs before resting it on his shoulder, completely at ease. 

“I just loathe a coach—even more than a chimeara--don’t you?” His voice rose up to the window, higher pitched than I thought it would be, with an odd, sing-songy cadence. His words dripped with bored amusement but there was an undercurrent of power that hinted at absolute assurance and ease. “A whole week shut up in that thing. The mind simply rots. Of course, you couldn’t just come to court like a good little wizard, could you Sherlock?” 

_Sherlock?_ It only then occurred to me that of course the man hadn’t been born and christened ‘The Dragon’. His parents would have had a lot to answer for with that one. Though, Sherlock was only slightly less ostentatious or fussy in my opinion. 

“My duties here occupy me. I have no time or desire to parade myself in front of witless courtiers and pompous royalty… _Your Highness._ ” He tacked on the last as a seemingly deliberate afterthought. 

I was leaning far enough out of the window at that point that I really was in danger of falling right out. 

The king of Dolnon had two sons. Crown Prince James was nothing but a sensible young man. He was well-educated, well-spoken, and well-married to a daughter of some reigning count from the north—which had earned the kingdom access to a desirable port. They had already assured the succession with a boy and a girl for spare. He was supposedly a very level-headed administrator. He would make an excellent king someday. And, no one gave two shits about him. 

Prince Moriarty was enormously more satisfying.

I'd heard at least a dozen songs and stories about how he had slain the Vandalus Hydra—none of them alike but all of them true in every little detail, I was steadfastly assured. On top of that, he had killed at least two or three or nine giants in the last war against Acerima. And he was still less than thirty years old! I’ll admit that as a boy, I often pretended to be him when Mary and I would play knights with sticks. At the time, I had nursed a fantasy of running away after Mary was taken to join the royal guard, becoming a solider for the king and fighting alongside Prince Moriarty to defend the kingdom. As I grew older, I had other fantasies about him.

He was shorter than I had imagined. 

As the Prince and the Dragon went into the Tower, I pulled myself back into my room and started pacing. I made myself sit back down on the bed, rubbing my face with my hands before springing up and pacing some more. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I opened my door and started creeping down the stairs in hopes of doing some eavesdropping.

I half expected the staircase to keep me from finding them, but as I rounded the corner I heard their voices coming from behind the closed library door. I backed up a few steps to keep out of sight as I listened. I couldn’t catch more than one word in five but they seemed to be talking about the past wars with Acerima and the Wood. 

Honestly, I didn’t really care what they were talking about—I was far more interested in the possibility of rescue. This forced captivity and life-draining abuse had to be against the King’s law, didn’t it? He’d told me to stay hidden away which meant that he must have been afraid of me being seen—and not just because I was a right mess. If I could just get the Prince alone, throw myself on his mercy, maybe he’d be able to pull rank and take me away…I wondered where the guest chambers were and if the staircase would let me out there. 

“Enough,” Prince Moriarty’s voice broke through my thoughts. He still sounded bored and vaguely amused, but something in the tone told me he was actually angry. “Enough Sherlock. You and my father and James, all bleating like sheep. It must be so nice to be above all this petty ‘Wood’ business, hidden away in your toy Tower. But, you can mark my words, Sherlock…I will not be letting this slide.” His words were getting clearer, as if he was moving closer to the door.

I beat a hasty retreat, my bare feet as noiseless as I could make them. I sat on the top step outside of my room until I heard their voices disappear from the stair again—the Dragon must have shown the Prince to his room. I wasn’t sure if I had it in me to disobey the Dragon directly. I thought of the rage in his eyes when he found me with that _Summoning_ book. If he caught me trying to knock on the Prince’s door, he’d surely do something terrible to me. 

But…he was already doing something terrible to me…wasn’t he? Mary would have taken the chance, I was sure of it. 

I went back to my room and practiced the scene, murmuring words under my breath. How I would knock on his door, bow, state my case and plead for his protection. When at last it was dark, I crept back down the stairs, my heart pounding. I was only slightly surprised when I found myself in front of an unfamiliar door. A dim, warm light from a fire was flickering on the stones in front of it.

I hesitated on the landing—then I went down to the kitchen instead. I told myself I was hungry. I shoved a few bits of bread and cheese into my mouth as a distraction and then went back up the stairs. All the way up the stairs to my room. 

I couldn’t really imagine it: me, a peasant boy, a servant in the Dragon’s Tower, waking the Prince in the middle of the night to tell him a mad story about the great wizard picking on and tormenting me, begging him to save me. I had to laugh at myself. 

Desolately, I opened the door to my room, walked in, and stopped short. 

Prince Moriarty was standing in the middle of the chamber looking at the painting of the valley with his hands in his pockets. He glanced over his shoulder at me. His eyes were so dark that they appeared black as they flitted down my body to my bare feet and back up to my face. He wasn’t a large man—probably just a couple inches taller than me and lean—but his presence made the room feel so much smaller. I think I made some sort of inarticulate grunt. 

“Well then,” he drawled, “you aren’t one of his typical beauties are you?” He took two smooth steps toward me. I shifted instinctively backwards and bumped into the closed door. He cocked his head to the side and stared at me, unblinking. The blackness of his eyes seemed to suck all of the light from the room. “Seems Sherlock has taken a fancy to a new type of plaything. Perhaps you have some particular…skill or talent that makes up for it? Is that right, sweetie? That’s his usual shtick, isn’t it?”

He sounded teasing and he grinned at me but the smile didn’t meet his eyes. They remained strangely predatory. I stared up at him dumbly, trying desperately to remember what the hell I had been meaning to say to him before. He pulled his hand from his pocket, cupping the side of my throat, his thumb stroked lightly at the hairs at the nape of my neck. A muscle twitched next to his eye.

Then he laughed. He moved forward. He kissed me. And, he reached efficiently for the laces of my trousers. 

I started and jumped like a fish trying to be free of a net. He was surprisingly strong. The fingers on my neck might as well have been stone. I was too surprised to do much more than bat weakly at the hand attempting to invade my pants. 

“Oh, don’t go all shy on me now. And, don’t you worry about old Sherlock. He won’t do anything.” As if that were my only reason to complain! “He is such a finicky sort, isn’t he? But, he is still my father’s vassal, even if he does prefer to play house out here in the hinterlands with all you silly little valley folk.” He was kissing my throat, shoving at my hands as they rebuffed his advance.

I was so confused. Surely he couldn’t. Not Prince Moriarty. Not the hero. I suppose that in most noble houses some scullery maid—or even an enterprising stable boy—would have already slithered into his bedchamber and saved him the trouble of going looking. For that matter, I might have been willing myself if he had actually bothered to ask me and given me time to get over my surprise and answer him. But he didn’t ask. He took. 

I didn’t scream. He had me pinned to the door and my brain was still trying to process his mouth and hands on me. I continued to push at his hands, and protested disjointedly between presses of his mouth on mine. “Your Highness!—I don’t—please wait—I just—” He might not have expected resistance, but he certainly met it. He grew impatient. 

“There, there; all right now,” he said it as though he were calming a startled horse or a small child. He grabbed hold of both my wrists and pinned them above my head in one of his hands. He had already undone the laces of my trousers, his hand snaked down the back of them to seize a rough handful of my ass. At that point, my body reconnected to my brain. I bucked and kicked and twisted, but even though I probably could have fought him off on normal footing, he had taken my mental lapse to press his position and had me well and truly trapped against the door. 

“It’s always so funny when they struggle.” He chuckled. 

After a particularly well aimed kick almost connected with his balls, he shoved a knee into my stomach causing the wind to rush out of me. “Try that again! Just try it.” He was snarling suddenly and the change had me reeling. It was as if the smooth porcelain veneer of my childhood hero had cracked and revealed the ugly innards, full of darkness and rankness and spiders. 

I felt him, his cock hard against my hip, his hand pushing down my trousers. I couldn’t think. Desperately sucking in breath, without thinking, I gasped out the word “ _Vanastalem._ ”

Power swelled in my stomach and shuddered out of me. Molded leather, chainmail, and hard, shining steel surged up under his fingers, wrapping me in heavy constricting armor. He jerked his hands back as rivets and plates snapped together, like biting mouths. I shoved him back, hard, stumbling away from him and caught myself against the wall next to my bed, struggling to catch my breath under the weight of the heavy armor. 

He had gone deathly still staring at me. Then he said, in a very different voice, a tone that I couldn’t quite place, “So… a wizard…”

I backed away from him like a wary animal, my head spinning. I couldn’t get my breath properly. The armor had saved me, but it was so tight and hard and constricting, as if it had made itself deliberately impossible to be penetrated, even by necessary lungfulls of air. 

He stalked toward me slowly, “Listen to me, you little—” But, I had no intention of listening to him. I searched wildly behind me for something, anything! My fingers came in contact with something hard and cold on the floor next to my bed. I swung the breakfast tray down hard on his skull with a solid, metallic _**THWANG!**_ The blow knocked him staggering sideways. I gripped the tray with both hands, lifted it up and brought it down again. And again. 

I was still swinging wildly when the door burst open and the Dragon was there in a long, magnificent dressing gown, his eyes savage. He took one step into the room and halted. I halted too, panting, the tray still above my head in mid-swing. Moriarty had sunk to the floor in front of me, slumped to his knees in a bloody pile. Red rivulets ran across his scalp and chin, big bloody bruises were forming across his forehead and nose. His eyes were closed. 

With one long rattling breath, he fell over with a _**thwump**_ onto the floor in front of me, unconscious. 

Sherlock took in the scene—looked at the Prince, looked at the tray, looked at me—and said, “You idiot, what have you done _now?_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the name of the kingdom (Dolnon) is a scramble of London. And, just for lols, the name of the neighboring kingdom with which they were at war (Acerima) is a scramble of America. Also, Moriarty’s brother being called James is because apparently Doyle had given both Professor Moriarty and his brother by the same first/Christian name, through a mistake in continuity. So, James is also the brother’s name according to canon. 
> 
> As always, this is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine and mine alone
> 
> Thanks again for reading! Your kudos and comments keep me going!


	7. Dawning

Together, we heaved the Prince off the floor and onto my narrow bed. His face was already a mess of purple-black bruises. The breakfast tray was unsalvageable, dented badly from the curve of his skull, which was the more tragic loss in my opinion. 

“Brilliant. Just splendid.” Sherlock was peeling back Moriarty’s eyelids to look at his pupils, dull and unfocused. With an exasperated huff, he lifted one of the Prince’s arms and it fell limply back down and bounced on the mattress. 

I stood watching, still panting in the constricting armor. My desperate fury had drained out of my body and left only the exhausted horror behind. “Is he—? He’s not—?”

“If you don’t want a man dead, try not to bludgeon him over the head repeatedly. Think it through next time. Go down to the laboratory,” Sherlock barked, “Bring me the yellow elixir in the clear flask from the shelf in the back. _Not_ the orange one. _Not_ the red one. The _yellow_ one—and I know it’s difficult for you, but do try not to smash it before you return. Unless you are dying to try and persuade the King that your virtue was worth the life of his son.”

He had been fliting angrily around the room as he spoke, but now he shook back the sleeves of his dressing gown and pressed his long, thin fingers to Moriarty’s temples. He began chanting softly, the words in his low baritone shivered up my spin. His head was bent over his work, dark curls tumbling over his forehead, his eyes cast down, eyelashes fanning dark shadows over his cheeks. A dim blue light was collecting in the space around him. 

He…it was strangely, alienly beautiful when he wasn’t using that magic to torment me. 

His pale, tilted eyes snapped up to mine, still highly irritated. “Do you need a map? Or are you just waiting for him to finish bleeding out on the duvet? Go!”

When I returned with the elixir, I didn’t feel the need to tell him about tripping on my way back up the stairs. He had surely heard the metallic crash the armor had made against the stone. But, I hadn’t broken the flask so I was counting that as a win. 

I found the Dragon still working; he didn’t interrupt his chanting, only held a hand out impatiently for the flask, beckoning sharply. I lay the flask in his hand and couldn’t help crowding close to the bed to watch in fascination what he was doing. He made to pour the liquid, realized the flask was still corked, and thrust it back against my chest with an exasperated and disgusted huff. I hastily unstoppered the cork and placed it back into his still out-held hand so he could tip a swallow into the Prince’s mouth. 

The smell of the bright yellow liquid was horrible, like rotting fish. The Dragon shoved the flask back at me without even looking and I had to hold my breath while I recorked it.  


Sherlock was clamping Moriarty’s jaw closed with both hands. Even unconscious and bleeding out, the Prince thrashed wildly and tried to spit. The elixir was glowing, somehow, from within his mouth—it was so bright that I could see the outline of his teeth and jawbone through his cheeks.

His body began to seize and shake and buck so fiercely that Sherlock was forced to kneel on the bed to brace himself against it. There was a fraction of a second pause in the chanting where his eyes jerked up to meet mine—apparently at some point I had surged forward and was sitting on the Prince’s chest and holding his nose—before he resumed full force. 

After a few moments, Moriarty’s body grew taut, his back arching. I watched the muscles of his throat work as he swallowed, the glow sliding down his throat and chest to pulse in his stomach. I watched it pool there before it surged out across his body, in a spider web of glowing veins and arteries under his clothes. It chased down his limbs until it sputtered and died at his fingertips. Moriarty’s body slumped and deflated against the mattress, his breathing strong and even. 

The Dragon let go of the Prince’s head and stopped chanting, his chest heaving raggedly as he caught his own breath. He looked drained in a way I had never seen him before. I stood, hovering anxiously next to the bed, glancing between the unconscious body and the tall man next to it.

Dried blood was still caked in the Prince’s hair and on his face, but the wounds themselves seemed to have disappeared. 

“Will he—?”

“Despite your best efforts, he’ll live.” 

Adrenaline gone, I sank back against the wall with a _**clank**_ of metal on stone. Gasping for breath, I clawed ineffectively at the high gorget around my neck—trying to find a latch or clasp on the smooth, hard steel. 

“Why in the world would you put yourself in that blasted armor if there was with no way of removing it? Seems terribly short-sighted.”

“I _didn’t_ put myself—!” I pulled up short. I looked down at the gauntlets covering my fingers, the breastplate, the protective steel that had come to my rescue. The Dragon hadn’t been anywhere near. He hadn’t worked any magic, cast any spell. I remembered the power of _vanastelam_ building in my belly and rushing out of my own mouth…

“What have you done to me…?” I whispered, “Moriarty said—he called me a wizard… _You’ve made me a **wizard!**_ ” I shouted the last bit as my anger sizzled through the shock. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” he snorted, “If I had the ability to craft wizards, I’d hardly choose a simple-minded, obstinate peasant runt for my materials. Especially one so bull-headed he’d deliberately ignore my instructions to keep to his room—do you really think that I’d leave the entrance to this room accessible through the stairs with that smarmy bastard here? And the only thing you had to do was _**stay put!**_ Additionally, all I have _‘done to you’,_ as you so eloquently put it, is to try and drum some tiny, miserable charms into that nearly impenetrable skull of yours.” He spoke with his usual rapid-fire assurance, but as he leveled himself up to his full height he gave a hiss of weariness, struggling, not unlike the way I’d struggled after the times in the library where he’d…

He’d been teaching me magic. 

I stared up at him, bewildered but slowly beginning to believe. “But why….why would you teach me?”

“Well, I would have been delighted to leave you moldering in your coin-sized village, but my options were painfully limited.”

“Why the hell didn’t you just tell me what you were doing!?”

“I assumed it was perfectly obvious. What in the world else did you think we were doing?”

I stopped myself from telling him _exactly_ what I'd thought he was doing to me--now was not the time to tell him I'd thought he was a soul sucking vampire.

“So, the girls—all the girls, they were witches?”

“Of course not. Magic is exceedingly rare. It’s been 47 years since the last new witch was added to the books—and she was the great-great-granddaughter of Moffet the Intractable so it wasn’t all that unexpected. But, for the gift to spring up in a line of mundane humans without any sign of magic in the past millennium—and believe me, I’ve now thoroughly researched your family history, I would know—is essentially unheard of. I’d much rather have left you to grow senile, chopping firewood, and shagging farmers’ daughters. Unfortunately, those with the gift must be taught; the King’s law requires it.” He seemed genuinely frustrated by this, glaring down at the prone form of Prince Moriarty on the bed. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he continued, “In any case, it would have been idiotic of me to leave you sitting there like a ripe plum until something nasty came out of the Wood, swallowed you down, and made itself into a truly remarkable horror.” 

I flinched away, appalled by this idea. He had returned to scowling at the Prince. Moriarty took that moment to groan a little and stir in his sleep—he was waking-up, lifting a groggy hand to rub at the dried blood on his face. With an undignified noise, I scrambled away from the bed and closer to Sherlock, my body taut and ready to attack or defend again. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Here, say it with me, _Kalikual_ ,” I felt the word tickling at my spine as he said it. “It’s far less messy than beating paramours senseless with breakfast trays.”  


He looked at me expectantly, clearly waiting for me to comply. I stared at him.

“If I wasn’t a—if I wasn’t a wizard, would you let me…could I go home? Can’t you take it out of me?”

He was silent. I saw something indescribable flicker behind his eyes. 

This close, Sherlock’s face was a study in contradictions, both old and young at the same time. For all his years, he only had a tiny smattering of faint lines at the corners of his eyes and a single wrinkle that appeared on his brow when he was especially exasperated. He moved with the energy and spirit of a young man, but if people were supposed to grow kinder, milder, or more patient with age, he certainly hadn’t. Yet, for this short moment, I saw the age in his eyes—every year of his long life swirling in the layers of ice blue. I only now noticed that his pupils were surrounded with the smallest ring of yellow which seemed to ripple like molten gold and centuries of unspoken emotions. 

“No.” He said. 

And I believed him. 

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter, but I wanted to give you all something :)
> 
> Thanks again for all the kudos, comments, and love! Any feedback is always appreciated :)
> 
> \--muckette


	8. Long Live the Queen

The Dragon blinked and what I had seen in his eyes was gone, buried deep again. He turned and pointed insistently to the bed where the Prince was pushing himself up on an elbow, blinking unfocusedly at us both. He was clearly still dazed, but even as I looked, the spark of recognition flitted onto his face, remembering me. 

“ _Kalikual._ ” I whispered, raising my hand in front of me because it seemed like I should. 

I felt the power rise out of me and crackle across the room. Moriarty sagged back against the pillows, eyes falling closed, asleep once more. 

I staggered back against the wall and slid down to the floor, bone tired and spent. I grasped ineffectually at the metal around my neck and chest, wishing I had more room to breathe. Sherlock muttered a string of words under his breath. I felt the armor around my ribcage throb and heard the seams in the metal popping, one after another, from my chest and neck to my elbows and knees. I dug my fingers between the seams in the side and ripped the chest piece and gorget away from my heated skin, letting them fall to the floor with a clatter. 

I lay back against the wall with my eyes closed for a moment, sucking in greedy breaths and feeling the cool air lick at the sweat beading on my chest. I vaguely realized that I wasn’t wearing any underclothes for the armor, which would make it rather uncomfortable to sit in for long. 

I opened my eyes to find the Dragon looking down at me with an incalculable stare. He looked quickly away, turning sharply on his heel, to glare at the prone form of Moriarty on the bed. 

“Won’t his men be asking for him in the morning?” I thought of the dozen or so soldiers camped out on the Tower grounds. 

“Do you imagine that we are going to keep Prince Moriarty locked up in my Tower fast asleep indefinitely?” Sherlock pitched over his shoulder, annoyed.

“But then, when he wakes he—he’s going to remember that I…” I stuttered to a stop, then asked “Could you—can you make him forget? This…all of it?”

“Oh, certainly.” He was mocking me. “He surely won’t notice anything peculiar if he wakes in the morning with a splitting headache and an enormous gap in his memory to go with it. Brilliant idea”

“Well, couldn’t you—,” I struggled back up to my feet, wincing when the remaining armor pinched at me, “—what if he remembered something else instead? Just going to bed in his own room, going to sleep and—”

“Do try to keep up now. You _clearly_ didn’t seduce him, so he came up here of his own intention. Additionally, he had never seen you before, so he must have assumed that you were going to be a girl, like all the rest; but, he didn’t change his actions upon finding you were male. Now, that could be because he genuinely does not care about the sex of his conquests or because he was following through on his previous intention regardless. But, when was that intention formed? Merely tonight as he was lying in bed? Or, was he thinking of this his whole time on the road? A warm bed and welcoming arms—yes, yes, I realize that yours weren’t,” he cut short my rising protests, “you’ve provided sufficient evidence to the contrary—what with the bludgeoning and such. Quite possibly, he meant to do this even before he set out—meaning it to be a calculated sort of insult.”

“But, you just said that he didn’t know I was here—how could he have meant it as an insult to me?”

“Oh, try not to be so purposefully thick!” I was really getting quite tired of being told I was an idiot. “He was of course trying to get one over on _me._

“On you!?” I was flabbergasted. How was he the victim here? He cocked an eyebrow at me, clearly waiting for me to catch up. I thought back to before that smarmy bastard had pinned me to the door. He had said that I wasn’t of the Dragon’s ‘typical’ sort, as if he really _had_ thought ahead to this. He’d planned it. He had set out to this room with intention and it didn’t really matter who he’d found on the other side of the door. 

“He supposes that I take women and force them to be whores for me,” Sherlock said flippantly. I purposefully didn’t tell him that the majority of the valley supposed the same. “Most of those at court do. Probably because they’d do so themselves if given half a chance at my power. So, I imagine he thought he was cuckolding me in some fashion. To have a personal sort of ‘one-up’, just to dangle over my head. And, I’m sure he would have been delighted to spread it around the court—that place sustains itself on nothing but expensive spirits and gossip.” 

“But why?” I asked, still not completely understanding. “Why in the world would he want to insult you? Didn’t he come here to ask you for your help? To ask you for some magic or something?”

“No, he came to enjoy the pristine view of the Wood.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course he came for my magic! Which he is not getting. I told him that he should stick to dropping his daddy’s name and poking things with swords instead of meddling in affairs he could scarcely hope to understand. I’d say he’s gone a bit soft in the head and begun to believe in his own fairy story. Said he wanted to try and rescue the Queen.” He snorted a laugh.

“But the Queen is dead.” I said, confused. 

That had been the start of the never-ending wars with Acerima. The Crown Prince of Acerima had come to visit Dolnon on an embassy trip, over twenty years ago now. He’d fallen in love with the stunning and provocative Queen Irene and they had run away together. When King Magnussen’s knights had tracked them down, they’d fled into the Wood.

And, that was the end of the story. There was no need to say “and they were never seen again” because no one who went into the Wood came out again—at least not as themselves. Sometimes a person would come out blind, deaf, and screaming. Another might return twisted and deformed. And, worst of all, a rare individual might come out wearing their own face but with murder behind their eyes.

Queen Irene and the Crown Prince hadn’t come out at all. So, of course, King Magnussen blamed the Crown Prince for abducting his wife and the King of Acerima had blamed Dolnon for the death of his heir. Since then, it had been nothing but blood and war between the two nations. 

I had heard the story countless times growing up. Here in the valley, we all agreed that it had been the Wood’s doing from the start. Queen Irene? The beautiful, intelligent, and gracious Queen Irene? Running off with some foreign Prince when she had two young children at home and a kingdom that adored her? To most certainly start a war with her own husband? Their own courtship had been legendary! How the King had sought her and cajoled her and convinced her to leave her own small throne in the island kingdom of Belgravia to sit at his side. There had been dozens of songs about their wedding. My mother had sung me part of one that she remembered a few times—of course the troubadours were no longer permitted to perform them. 

The Wood had been behind it all, of course. One story said that someone had poisoned them both with water that was taken from where the Spindle disappeared into the Wood. Another told the tale of an old man, a leatherworker who had traveled along the mountain pass from Acerima and fallen asleep in the shadow of some dark trees near its edge. He had woken up a different person and gone to the capital city with cruel intention toward the crown. There were many more stories, but one thing was consistent—we knew it was the Wood. 

But, that made no difference. Queen Irene was gone and she had disappeared with the Crown Prince of Acerima. So, we were at war and we would be at war for the foreseeable future while the Wood crept farther into both realms every year, feeding on the strife and discord and death. 

The Dragon laughed and turned to me, eyes sparkling. “The Queen is not dead. She’s still in the Wood.” 

I stared at him. He sounded absolutely certain and proud of that certainty. 

Queen Irene? The marvelous Queen from the songs? Trapped alive in the Wood for twenty years? Most likely tormented endlessly in some horrific fashion….it was just the sort of sadistic thing the Wood would do. 

“That’s horrible…couldn’t you—?” 

“There’s no getting her out.” He said in the same certain tone. He waved a dismissive hand at the Prince. “And, that brat would only start something worse by going in and trying. But, of course, he won’t hear it—this coming from a boy who thinks killing a three-day-old, half-blind hydra makes him some sort of hero.” 

None of the songs had mentioned that the Vandalus Hydra was only three days old. Or half-blind. That diminished the story a bit. 

“He probably thinks that her rescue would pad that heroic reputation he’s been crafting. Make no mistake, he is angling to usurp his brother for the Crown. Most likely scheming an early end for his father as well. Though, I suppose he might be feeling somewhat aggrieved—lords and princes _loathe_ magic anyway because you can’t fight or lie or sleep your way to it, all the more for how desperately they need it. Yes, a mix of cunning and petty revenge can make for the death of nations. And, that boy on the bed has it in spades.”

I found that strangely easy to believe. 

Additionally, I _did_ grasp Sherlock’s point. If Moriarty had planned to ‘enjoy’ the Dragon’s companion, no matter who that person might be (I felt a surge of righteous indignation, thinking of if Mary had been in my place—she was fierce but even smaller than me and she wouldn’t have even had the unwanted magic to save her!) then he would never had just gone to bed. The false memory wouldn’t fit neatly into his head—like trying to shove a piece from the wrong puzzle into that last empty slot. 

“However,” Sherlock stopped suddenly and steepled his hands under his chin, rocking on his heels, “it’s not an _entirely_ useless idea…I could alter his memory in the _other_ direction...”

“The other direction?” I said, puzzled. 

“I’ll simply give him a memory of a couple hours spent enjoying your favors. Full of suitable enthusiasm on your part, of course, and the satisfaction of making a fool of me on his. I’m sure he won’t have any difficulty swallowing that one.” He shook his sleeves back again and started purposefully toward the bed. 

“What!?” I snagged a handful of his dressing gown to stop him in his tracks. He glared down at my hand incredulously. “You’ll have him think that we—that he—? No! Just, no!” 

“Do you mean to tell me that you honestly care what _**he**_ thinks of you?” Sherlock demanded, raising an eyebrow. 

“If he thinks that we’ve…that I’ve _lain_ with him, then what’s to stop him from doing—from wanting to do _that_ again!” 

Sherlock plucked my hand off the lapel of his dressing gown, holding my wrist delicately between his thumb and index finger, like he was removing an offending hair or piece of dust. “I’ll make it an unpleasant memory—all elbows and knees, shrill giggling and maidenly professions of adoration and love,” –I scoffed—“He’ll remember getting off and rushing to get out, all over very quickly. The act itself only remarkable in its unremarkability. Unless _you_ have some brilliant plan? Or, perhaps you’d rather he woke up remembering you doing your best to _murder_ him?” He added with a sarcastic smile. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, I had the deeply wretched experience of seeing Prince Moriarty stop outside his carriage to look up at my window and blow me a cheerful and indiscreet kiss. I’d only been watching to make sure he actually left. I had to physically stop myself from throwing one of discarded armor gauntlets down on his head.

But Sherlock hadn’t been wrong to be wary; even with such a comfortably believable memory written into his head, Moriarty hesitated on the carriage stairs and looked back up at me with a slight, troubled frown. It didn’t fully leave his face before he slid inside and allowed his horses and servants to whisk him away.

I watched the dust rising from the carriage wheels until the cloud had well and truly disappeared behind the hills. Only then did I start to feel safe again. I vaguely wondered when I had started to feel in anyway safe in an enchanted tower with a powerful wizard and magic lurking under my skin. 

When I arrived at the library later that day, the Dragon was back sprawled in his over-stuffed leather chair, a large book laid open on his lap. “So, today we’ll start by trying—” He paused. He had finally bothered to look up at me and was now staring. 

I was standing in front of him with one finger raised in protest. My other hand was holding the ridiculous velvet waistcoat closed over my chest. Having no other options, I had cobbled together a mish-mosh outfit from the foppish burgundy attire I had thrown in the corner of my room and the shattered pieces of armor—the silk breeches did not tuck very well into the greaves and _all_ of the buttons were now somehow missing off the shirt and waistcoat, held together by my fist and the metal fauld. 

He cocked an amused eyebrow at me.

“First,” I gathered up my courage and shook my finger to highlight my instance, “you will show me how to make this something that I can actually wear.” I paused. “Please.” 

“If you haven’t grasped _vanastalem_ by now then there is really nothing more I can do for you. You may in fact be defective.”

“No! Not—not that spell. I can’t move in this type of clothing, let alone keep it clean. I need something functional. Not velvets. Not silks. Not ridiculous unremovable armor. Something _normal._ ” I couldn’t emphasize that enough. 

“Well, if you are determined to continue looking like a provincial serf, so be it.” He rose from his chair with a flourish and gestured for me to turn around. Grudgingly, I turned my back to him and felt him step up behind me. He cleared his throat to get me to drop the hand holding my shirts together and he placed his palm on my stomach. I sucked in a breath when I felt his heated palm on my bare skin. 

“Wait,” I had just realized something. He hadn’t done this the last two times I had used my magic. “What is this? What are you doing here?”

“Guiding you, of course.” I could hear the unspoken _idiot_ in his voice. “In times of danger, your magic can come to your defense—shooting out of you like an unpredictable geyser to protect you. It can also drain you, lashing out and causing unparalleled destruction if not properly directed and controlled. It’s probably been fluctuating wildly your whole life. You’ll need help finding, controlling, and calling on your powers in the beginning. This,” he spread his fingers wider on my stomach, “grounds you. It’s my magic showing your magic the way. Soon, you won’t need it, but for now…” I felt him shrug against my back. 

I let out a slow breath.

“Ok, then. Guide me.”

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed. More to come soon! 
> 
> Also, NEW ART! (And, I finally figured out how to embed the links--this girl is unstoppable! lol)  
> Thanks so much for the kudos and comments, they keep me going--which my cat likes because that means I keep feeding him. 
> 
> As always, any feedback is much appreciated!


	9. The Beacons

“Try degrading it then.”

“What?”

“Your mother really must be so proud of your vocabulary. _Degrade_ it. Degrade the spell, degrade the outcome.” 

I was still stood in my mish-mash outfit with my back pressed against Sherlock’s front. I was now willing to let him guide me, but it seemed that my willingness did not make him any less sharp-tongued or exasperated with me.

“Try slurring it,” he suggested, “Drop part of the word, or mumble, or stutter—you seem perfectly adept at tripping over your own tongue, put that ‘skill’ to use.”

I stopped myself from showing him _exactly_ how colorful and varied my vocabulary could be in favor of trying to get this over quickly. I thought about the charm, _vanastalem_ —just, degrade any part of it? I was doubtful, but I tried. “ _Vastalem?_ ”

I felt the shorter word flip off of my tongue—it fit better in my mouth than the longer version, smaller and more manageable, more friendly somehow. That was probably just my imagination though. 

The metal and silks shuddered and deflated around me, pulling in and wrapping around me in a much simpler configuration. The new shirt was of a cream-colored linen, loose about the collar—as I tended to prefer—with a front lacing. The sturdy tan waistcoat was cinched with a leather belt. Serviceable brown trousers were tucked into the tops of tooled and comfortably worn leather boots. It was all plain and comfortable and easy. I felt like I could finally breathe in this. Additionally, the shorter word didn’t seem to drag as much energy from me. When Sherlock let me go this time, I hardly felt tired at all. 

“If you’ve arranged yourself quite to your satisfaction—” his voice dripped with sarcasm as he cast a hand toward a nearby bookcase, summoning a fat red book which flew to him from the shelf, “—we’ll begin with the syllabic composition.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

As little as I _wanted_ to be a wizard, I was glad to not be so afraid all the time. Some of the horrific mystery had been stripped from the Dragon and the Tower and the magic. My footing was a bit more secure. 

But, I was no prize pupil. 

When I didn’t flat out forget the spell-words he taught me, they went sideways and wrong in my mouth. I slurred and mumbled and muddled them together, so that a spell that ought to have neatly laid out a tray with tea and biscuits ended with the cups, saucers, and biscuits attempting to shove themselves up the flu while the teapot hovered near the ceiling, shooting streams of boiling tea down on our heads—“Well, that’s it. We’ll be avoiding potions for as long as possible,” he’d spat caustically while deflecting the tea away from his precious books and out of the window. 

Another charm that was supposed to bank the fire in the library, where we were working, seemed to do absolutely nothing—until we heard a distant and ominous crackling. We raced upstairs to find green-tinged flames leaping off the canopy bed of the guest chamber directly above—the embroidered bedcurtains already completely unsalvageable. He roared at me furiously for ten minutes as he sought to put out the sulky and determined fire, calling me a “witless and muttonheaded spawn of pig-farmers”—“My father’s a woodcutter!”—“of axe-swinging buffoons then!” he snarled. 

But, even so, I was no longer afraid. Highly annoyed with the self-confidence of a toadstool, yes, but no longer afraid.  


Each of my ‘lessons’ would end with him spinning and sputtering himself into exhaustion before sending me away—occasionally by throwing something at me. I didn’t mind his shouting at all now. It reminded me of the tantrums that Mary’s little brother would throw when denied a second pudding. 

I was almost sorry not to be a better student. I began to realize that his frustration was that of a lover of beauty, intelligence, and perfection. He hadn’t wanted an apprentice, but having been saddled with one he wanted to make a great and skillful wizard of me. He very much viewed his magic as an art—a meeting of creativity and intellect and skill. He loved his work. That was clearly evident as he made me demonstrations of higher, more advanced workings—great intricate interweavings of gesture and word that played like symphonies and produced wonders. His keen, fox-like eyes grew bright, glittering and mischievous in the spell-light, his face madly beautiful with a kind of powerful transcendence. He loved his magic. And, he was trying to share that love with me. 

But, I was just happy to mumble my way through a few charms, take my inevitable lecture, and go cheerfully downstairs to the cellar and chop potatoes for my dinner by hand—forgoing the cookery spells he’d shown me. 

The breakfast after Moriarty’s party had left, I had drawn a line in the sand about his meals—“I’m not going to waste food! Too many people go hungry for you to sulk and brood over your porridge and not eat it!” I quickly realized that he was perfectly fine with starving himself out of stubbornness and I grudgingly agreed to a compromise. I’d make him the occasional meal or an extra serving of the pudding I’d made for myself—he seemed to have a bit of a sweet-tooth—but only if he outright said he was hungry and _promised_ to eat it. 

My refusal to attempt the spells outside of lessons maddened him to no end, not without some justice. I know I was probably being foolish—I was just not used to thinking of myself as someone special or important with any particular gift. I’d always been able to glean more mushrooms and nuts and berries than anyone else—even if that area of the forest had been picked over half a dozen times. And, I could always find late herbs in autumn and the first plums in spring. Anything that, as my mother would say, involved me getting as filthy as possible. But, that’s as far as my gifts went—so I had always thought—it was nothing that mattered to anyone outside of my own family. It really didn’t occur to me what having magic might mean, besides making absurd outfits and completing small household chores that I could more easily do by hand. 

For how much it maddened him, I did not mind my own lack of progress. I had no desire to be the great and powerful fuck-all of wizardry. I even settled into a kind of routine contentment as the days rolled by, autumn fading into winter.  


Sometimes, Sherlock would disappear for several days without so much as a word. The first time this happened, I questioned him upon his return about where he had gone and he’d merely said, “Consulting. Ocassionaly intriguing, more often tedious,” before he set me to trying to reorganize a toppled stack of books with a charm—“By _**color?**_ Really John, you organized them by _**color?**_ ”—But, I learned to expect his inconsistencies and disappearances, even if I did begin to find myself strangely lonely in his absence. 

A few days past Midwinter, the first heavy snow of the season blanketed the Tower grounds and surrounding hills. I was watching the fat heavy flakes fall outside of the library window when the rider came—an urgent scramble of hooves on the snowbound road followed by a frantic pounding at the Tower doors. Sherlock tossed aside the book he was attempting to teach me from and hurried down to the entrance hall, me on his heels. I was unsure if I was supposed to follow but he didn’t shout at me to stay so I pushed my luck—I hadn’t seen another person since Prince Moriarty’s unpleasant visit.  


The doors swung open of their own accord when Sherlock waved at them and the rider nearly fell inside with the gust of swirling white. He wore the dark yellow colors which marked him as a messenger of Lestrade, Lord of the Yellow Marshes. He knelt, quivering and pale, eyes glittering with fear as he looked up at the Dragon. 

“What is it? This had better be important. I was just concocting a very important experimental mixture of Stone Potion and Wolfsbane Essence.” Sherlock snapped— _he had been doing no such thing!_ —and the man flinched back instinctively. 

“My—my Lord, Baron Lestrade begs you to come at once! There is a chimaera come on us out of the mountain pass—!”

“That’s absurd,” Sherlock scoffed, “It’s far too late in the season for a chimaera. What sort of beast is it exactly? If some idiot has been confusing a wyvern with a chimaera again and spreading the nonsense on to others—”

The messenger was shaking his head back and forth violently, as if he couldn’t control it. “No, my Lord! It’s true! Serpent’s tail, great bat wings, a goat’s head—I saw it myself! That’s why the Baron sent me—”

Sherlock huffed, appearing for all the world very put out— _how dare a chimaera inconvenience him, coming out of season!_ I for one had no idea that chimeras _**had**_ a season. But, as I looked at him, I could see a narrowing of his eyes and a certain tension in his shoulders which spoke of a curious excitement at the puzzle—and just when had I become so good a reading the various ‘tensions’ in his shoulders? 

“Try not to break _**everything**_ while I am gone,” Sherlock tossed over his shoulder to me as I trotted behind him back up to the laboratory. He opened a case and ordered me to bring him this vial and that—“Do be careful with that Viperlace. It would strip the flesh from your bones in an instant,”—I did so unhappily but very, very carefully. 

“A chimaera is engendered through corrupt magic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still a living beast that responds to the seasons and its own natural rhythm.” I wasn’t sure if he was talking to me or merely talking. “They’re most closely related to snakes, because they hatch from eggs and their blood is cold. They spend the winters keeping still and lying in the sun as much as they can. They only hunt and terrorize in the summer months.”

“So why has this one come now?” I asked while handing him a vial of a purple-gray gaseous substance which throbbed in my hand. 

“Exactly!” His eyes twinkled at me and a giant conspiratorial grin stole across his face. “In all likelihood, it probably hasn’t and that gasping yokel below has frightened himself into fleeing a shadow, but if it is true then— _ **No!**_ Not the red one, idiot boy, that’s Fireheart; a chimaera would drink that up by the gallon if it had the chance and become something very much like a _real_ dragon. The _**red-violet**_ one, two farther on.” They both looked ‘red-violet’ to me, but I hastily swapped the potions and gave him the correct one. 

“All right,” he said, closing the case. “Don’t read any of the books. Don’t touch anything in this room. Don’t touch anything in _any_ room, actually. If you could try not to reduce the place to rubble before I return that would be much preferred.” 

“Well, what am I supposed to do here alone?” I was getting terribly bored of being left behind. “Can’t I—can’t I come with you?”

The Dragon seemed taken aback by the request, as if he had never considered asking another soul to join him—or that one might be willing to go if he asked. He cocked his head and considered me with those pale, piercing eyes before deciding “No.”

“But—”

“Not this time. You are too inexperienced and your magic is too temperamental, you’ll either drain yourself or set the entire city ablaze and I don’t have time to coddle you.” 

I’d grown used to the disparaging remarks, so they hardly even registered. What had registered was that he had said ‘not _this_ time’, as if there would be a time in the future when I would be able to accompany him—to get out of the Tower and see a chimaera or a giant or even some other human faces!

“How long ‘til you return?”

“A week, a month, or never, if I am distracted and do something particularly clumsy, like get myself torn in half by a chimaera—hence why you are staying right here. And, while I am gone, you are to do absolutely nothing, so far as physically possible.” 

And then he was sweeping away with a flourish of his dark coat. I ran to library and stared down from the window as he strode out into the snowy road. “I’m taking your horse,” I heard him tell the messenger. “Walk down to Olsha after me, I’ll leave it there for you and take a fresh one from their stables.” With these words, he swung up and waved an imperious hand in a graceful arch. A ball of fire blazed to life several yards in front of his horse, which shifted and whickered nervously, before it began to roll at speed away from the Tower leaving a melted trail in the snow bank behind. Then Sherlock was trotting off at once in its wake. 

I thought of the spell that had let him step through space to Watson and back so effortlessly. I supposed that it must not work over so long a distance—maybe he could only use it within his own territory? 

I stood and watched until he had disappeared and the messenger after him. It wasn’t as though he ever made his company exceedingly pleasant—he was petulant and moody, demanding and insufferably arrogant, but the Tower felt echoingly empty without him. Being in the library alone, I felt wrong-footed and awkward. I tried sitting for a bit in the great red armchair that had become my usual place to perch while listening to him lecture. But, it didn’t feel right without him lobbing insults and instructions to me from the leather chair opposite. 

Glumly, I made my way back to my tiny room at the top of the Tower. I had taken to whittling myself a chessboard and pieces out of spare bits of firewood—I really had no desire to play chess but I knew the various pieces and I’d always whittled when I was younger and bored with helping my father. The pieces weren’t pretty—I was no artist like Mary—but you could usually tell a pawn from a bishop. The first morning I had begun on the endeavor, Sherlock had taken one look at the wood-shavings on my trousers and the red nick on my middle finger before pronouncing, “When you cut off your thumb I will _not_ be reattaching it for you.” But, it was something to pass the time. 

I fell asleep with my back against the window-frame, a pile of woodchips, a knife, and an abandoned rook in my lap. It was late when I awoke with a start. The room was desperately cold. I had let the fire in the hearth die out. Despite that, there was a cast of dim yellow and orange flickering across the stone walls and ceiling. I realized that the source was coming from outside. 

I looked out my window and stared, still confused with sleep. There, chasing down the horizon in the dark, was the line of beacon-fires burning almost the whole length of the valley. 

I had seen the beacon-fires lit in Watson only three times in my life: once for the Green Summer, once for the snow-mares who had come out of the Wood when I was nine, and once for the shamble vines that had swallowed up four houses on the edge of the village in one night when I was fourteen. The Dragon had come all those times, alerted by the fires; he had flung back the Wood’s assault, saved us, and gone away again. 

In a rising panic, I counted the beacons back to see where the message had been lit, to see who was in trouble. Two beacons per village—one at each far side—running in a straight line down the Spindle. My blood ran cold. There were 13 beacons lit. The 13th beacon fire was in Watson. 

I stood staring in transfixed horror at the fires, ringing out a call of distress into the dark night. And then I realized, the Dragon was gone. There was no one here to answer their call. 

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! I just needed to say a major thank you—with the last chapter, this fic reached several milestones: I hit 20,00 words (and we are just getting started! Lol), over 1000 hits, 50 comments, 97 kudos, and over 75 people are subscribed, Numbers are silly but this is my first fic and they make me happy ^_^ So, please know that the love and support are very appreciated. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Additionally, I am currently working on the next piece of art for this fic; but, I like to think ahead. So, I’d like to ask if anyone has any requests of things/scenes/characters/ect. from this fic that they would like to see drawn. If you think of something you’d like to see, let me know in the comments.**
> 
>  
> 
> As always, this work is unbeated so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> \--muckette


	10. Get Me a Cart

At that moment, I realized for the first time exactly how big of a fool I had been. 

I’d never considered, never thought of my magic as good or useful for anything. It was a burden that I had discovered—like a new, unwanted limb—that I must manage and negotiate around for the rest of my life. But, as I stood there staring at the desperate flames of the beacon fires, I knew that there was no one else. 

There was only me. 

Whatever was in me, no matter how poor and clumsy and untaught, was more magic than anyone else in valley had. And some magic had to be better than none when facing the Wood, didn’t it? They needed help, and whatever little I could do, I had to try. 

I found myself deliberately disobeying the Dragon’s parting orders as I flung open the door to the laboratory. Frantically, I scoured the shelves of flasks and bottles and vials— _would it kill him to label them?!_ I settled for taking down only the ones that I recognized—a new bottle of the swirling grey potion that had turned me into stone, a vial of the Fireheart potion that Sherlock had warned me of, a pale green liquid that he’d once mentioned was good for growing plants, and the bright yellow elixir that he had used to revive Prince Moriarty after I had brained him to oblivion. I couldn’t guess what use any of them might be, but at least I knew what they were supposed to do. 

I probably could have used that flesh-stripping Viperlace, but it was likely for the best that he’d taken it with him—the Fireheart nearly slipped through my fingers before I got the chance to pack it away in the leather satchel I found in a corner cabinet. That could have made for a true disaster. For good measure, I wrapped and cushioned each potion in strips I’d torn from the velvet curtains before tucking them securely in the bag.

I yanked down the remaining curtains from the laboratory and bundled them off to the library, where I proceeded to pull down all of the drapery in there as well. I used a knife from Sherlock’s writing desk to help quickly tear and rip each sheet of the beautifully embroidered fabric into long, sturdy strips which I tied together, end to end. I knew from my previous escape attempts that I was unable to open the library windows—an attempt to break one of them by throwing a heavy candle stick at it had earned me a nice purple bruise when it had rebounded spectacularly and smashed into my chest. 

Instead, I gathered my make-shift rope in great loops over my shoulder and dashed back to my room at the very top of the Tower. It had the highest window, but it was the only one that I _knew_ I could open. I just hoped that my rope would reach the ground. I tightly knotted the rope to the heavy wooden leg of my bed before flinging it out of the open window, peering down after it. The night was dark. With this little light, there was no way to judge how close it came to reaching the ground. But I didn’t have a choice except to give it a go and hope.

I slung the leather satchel over my shoulder, across my body, as I tried not to think about what I was doing. A knot was swelling in the back of my throat as I perched on the window ledge, velvet rope clenched in my white-knuckled fists. I swallowed roughly before climbing backward over the sill. 

I’d practically lived to climb trees when I was younger. There was this great old gnarled oak that was a particular favorite of Mary and mine. We’d scramble over the twisting limbs or shimmy up a worn old rope tossed over a high branch. 

This was nothing like that. 

The stones of the Tower were preternaturally smooth. Even the tiny cracks between them were filled to the brim with mortar. The Tower showed no signs of its age, as though it refused to be touched by time. I gripped and curled my toes in my leather boots but my feet couldn’t get any purchase on the icy stones . All my weight was dangling on the velvet rope and my hands were contorting into frozen claws in the snowy air. My bad shoulder was screaming at me. Still, I slithered and scrambled down the rope as fast as I could, the satchel with the potions an ungainly swaying lump at my back, the bottles sloshing ominously. 

I kept going because I couldn’t do anything else. To go back up would have been much harder. When I began to have fantasies about letting go, I knew that I was approaching the end of my strength. I was halfway to convincing myself that it really wouldn’t be that bad to fall when my foot jarred painfully against the frozen ground, straight through half a food of snow and ice. The end of my make-shift rope tickled the very top of the snowbank against the Tower wall. Just the right length. 

My breath clouded in front of me as I rolled my shoulders, trying to work the feeling back into them and my hands before taking off at a sprint toward Olsha on the path the Dragon had cleared. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They hadn’t the foggiest what to do with me when I arrived. 

I came staggering into the tavern panting, sweat-stained and frozen at the same time. My hair was matted to my scalp with frost, my face raw and wind-burned. 

They were a sea of unfamiliar faces, startled and cautious. They probably thought me a madman.

“That’s him. That’s the boy the Dragon took.” A middle-aged man with a great red beard called out, stepping forward. It registered that I knew this man. He had been at the Taking, the father of one of the other Dragonborn girls that had stood in the line with Mary. His claim held sway. He’d been there. He’d seen. A ripple of uneasy shifting and murmurs passed through the crowd. 

None of the Dragon’s girls had ever left the Tower before her ten years was up. This was a known fact. As horrific and desperate as the beacon fires were, I think they might have felt themselves better off dead or left to face the Wood’s terrors alone than have me burst in on them, seemingly escaped straight from their Lord’s bedchamber, and face the Dragon’s wrath. 

“I have to—I need to help. The Dragon—he’s gone. He left for the Yellow Marshes to help Baron Lestrade this morning. He’s not coming! I need a cart and someone to take me to Watson!” From their tight and pale faces, I could tell that they unhappily, but quickly, believed the first part of this. And, I could also immediately tell they had no intention of doing the second. I tried telling them about chimaeras and magic lessons and rouge teapots and impenetrable armor, but they were having none of it. 

“Now, it’s alright, dear boy. You’ll come and spend the night in my house and we’ll return you to his Lordship’s Tower in the morning” a man who identified himself as the mayor said, clasping a hand on my shoulder and turning “Borys, ride for Watson. We must let them know that they need to hold out—” 

“I will _**not**_ be spending the night at your house!” I shouted, shaking off his hand. “If you won’t take me, I’ll walk! I’d still get there faster than any other help.”

“Enough!” the mayor snapped, grabbing hold of my wrists and shaking me, “Listen to me, you stupid boy! I’ll not have you—”

They were afraid. They thought I was a runaway, that I was just trying to get home. I heard Sherlock’s voice in my head, telling me what I already knew. _They don’t want to hear you snivel and beg, idiot. They already feel ashamed, guilty for rolling over and allowing me to take one of their children every ten years. They’re more terrified of me, the great and powerful Dragon, more terrified of my magic than they’ll ever be of the Wood, Make them terrified of **you.**_

I could almost feel him blanketing me from behind, a wall of fire on my frozen back, surrounding and engulfing my body and mind. His breath on my neck, his words in my ear, his strong, firm palm burning a hole to my very core, showing me the way. 

I breathed him in and breathed out the word that had saved me before. “ _Vanastalem._ ”

Every syllable was pronounced with the sharpness of a blade straight off the wet-stone. I could almost feel Sherlock’s pleased smirk against the shell of my ear. 

The mayor dropped my wrists as if struck by lightning. The crowd backed away as my magic went whirling around me, golden and warm, so bright that the fire in the hearth dimmed in comparison. When the light cleared, I stood before them tall, terrible, and ludicrously grand, like a prince in mourning. Layers of opulent black velvet, embroidered with delicate gold and dotted with black pearls, a heavy silk shirt with billowing sleeves, high leather boots and gloves, and an enormously grand, shining, fur-lined cape warmed my skin and steeled my mind. 

“I am _**not**_ stupid. I am _**not**_ a liar. And, if I can’t do any good at least I can do something. _**Now, get me a damn cart!”**_

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so short, but this bit of transition didn’t fit with the next chapter. I’m so happy that people seem to be enjoying this so much! I’ll keep writing if you keep reading.  
> Thanks for all who kudo and comment, I appreciate them more than you can know! As always, this is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.  
> \--muckette


	11. Lowing

They got me a cart.

Of course, it helped that none of them knew that the spell was a simple charm. None of them had ever seen magic done before, so I may as well have been the next Dragon come to terrorize them. I didn’t feel the need to enlighten them of how terribly rudimentary and clumsy my knowledge of magic still was. 

They hitched four horses to the lightest sleigh they had and sped me down the snow-packed road. I was huddled in a massive heap of blankets, a lump of grumpy fabrics on a wooden bench. It was fast and uncomfortable, the sleigh skittering and tilting dangerously on icy corners, but it wasn’t fast or uncomfortable enough to keep my mind from ruminating on just how little hope I had of doing anything but dying, and not even usefully. 

Borys had grimly volunteered to drive me. He was probably feeling guilty. And grateful. I had been taken, his daughter had not. She was safe at home. And here I was, four months taken and already completely unrecognizable. 

“Do you know what’s happening in Watson?”

“No, there hasn’t been any word yet,” he shouted back over the screaming wind. “The beacon-fires were only just lit a couple hours ago. The rider will still be on the road, if…” 

If there was a rider left to send. 

He seemed to gather himself a bit and finished. “We’ll surely meet him halfway.”

With my father’s heavy horses and big wagon, it was a long day’s ride from Watson to Olsha. That was on the way to summer market though. The midwinter road was now packed with snow a foot deep, frozen almost solid with a thin, fresh dusting on top and swirling through the air. The horses hard, ice shoes slashed onward and we flew through the night. 

A few hours before dawn we changed horses at the village of Yosnat. We didn’t stop properly. I didn’t even climb out of the sleigh, just silently willed the stable boys to work faster. 

We got a fresh burst of sped from the new horses. An hour on, the purple and orange of sunrise was bleeding into the horizon. There appeared the tired shadow of a man slogging down the road on foot. We drew closer and I saw that it wasn’t a man at all.

It was Mary. 

She was dressed in boy’s clothes and heavy boots. She stumbled straight for us, arms raised and waving madly. She grabbed the side of the sleigh, panting, as we slid to a halt. She dropped a quick curtsy at me and continued without pausing, “It’s the cattle—It’s taken all of the cattle! If they get their teeth in a man then it’s got him too. We managed to get them mostly penned. We’re holding them, but it’s taking every last man…”I had pulled myself forward from my heap of blankets. She blinked at me, allowing herself to truly see me for the first time. 

“J-John…?” she stuttered, disbelieving. 

“Mary,” I croaked, my voice grating against the ice in my throat.

We stared at each other in perfect silence, suspended in time for a long moment. 

“Quick, get in. I’ll tell you everything as we go.”

She scrambled into my nest of blankets next to me, still staring. We made a ridiculously unlikely pair: her in dirty, rough, pig-boy’s clothes, her soft, blonde her stuffed up under a cap, and me in my absurd finery. 

The sleigh dashed onwards. I grasped her frozen fingers and she clutched back, as if nothing had changed and we were still lying in the field behind my family’s house the night before the Taking. 

But so much had changed. 

I blurted out a disjointed set of bits and scraps of the whole story—babbling, losing my way on tangents and side alleys before returning to the main road of the tale again. I was so desperate for someone else to know, to believe me, to listen. 

Mary never let go of my hand, her green eyes warm and understanding. When I at last, haltingly, told her that I could do magic, she smiled with a bit of melancholy, “I should have known.” I gapped at her. “Maybe I did, deep down. Strange things always seem to happen to you, John. You'd always manage to find fruit out of season. And, you’d wander out of the woods with plants and flowers that no one had ever seen before.” 

She looked down at our hands, running her small, soot-smudged fingers over the impossibly soft, black leather of my gloves. “Do you remember, when we were very little, you used to tell me about the stories that the pine trees would whisper to you? You told the most wonderful tales of the forest and its secrets…until Harry teased you one too many times for playing make-believe and you stopped. But, sometimes I would see you go very still, like you were listening to them. Even the way your clothes were always such a mess—you couldn’t get so dirty if you tried! But, I knew you weren’t trying…you were never trying. It was as if the world just wanted to touch you, to be a part of you or make you a part of it. Roots jumped out of the ground to trip you. Just last summer, I saw a branch reach out and grab your shirt. Just reached down out of the sky and grabbed at you—”

I must have made some strangled noise of protest because she stopped. I had curled in on myself. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to know that the magic had been there, clinging to me, this whole time. That she had noticed. That she had known. It made it more real for some reason. Mary belonged to my life before the Dragon, preserved in my mind as something clean and simple and untouched by magic. But, it _had_ been there. Inescapable.

“Well, if that’s the case, then it’s not worth fuck-all besides keeping me a right mess for the rest of my life.” I tried to laugh but it came out as a desperate, bitter, and slightly manic huff. “I only came because _he’s_ gone. Please, just tell me what happened?” Mary gave me a sympathetic smile. 

And then she told me. 

The cattle had sickened almost overnight. The first few had mysterious, gangrenous bite marks—as if some enormous, rabid wolves had set teeth to them. Though, no wolves been seen anywhere near Watson all winter. 

“They were Robert’s.” She said soberly. I nodded.

Robert. The town’s butcher. Tom’s father. It was in his pasture that most of the town penned their cattle. He should have pulled the afflicted beasts out of the herd and cut their throats at once, the moment he saw that they were wolf-bitten and left behind alive. No normal wolf would have done that. 

But….well, Robert hadn’t been doing so well these past few years. 

The story of their family was a tragic one, even more so than the normal hard realities of life in the Valley. At 19, Tom was Robert's oldest child, but that hadn’t always been true. He’d had an older brother who came down with a corrupted fever when he was three and took a long, torturous seven months to die, wasting away to a gasping, rotting skeleton in front of their eyes. 

After that, my mother said that Sarah had lost three babies in the womb, two miscarriages and stillborn before giving birth to Tom. He was followed by a boy, Eric, who would have been my age if he had not been trampled by the snowmares, his skull caved in when we were nine. 

They went on to have four more children, three girls and another boy, but the family was constantly plagued by maladies and injuries. The oldest girl, Alice— _she would be eleven now, wouldn’t she?_ —had washed her face in a little stream too close to the Wood and had lost her sight. Their cottage had caught fire not long after that, forcing them to completely rebuild. Then, five years ago, a rage-mad bull had pinned Robert to his barn and crushed the bones in his arm so badly that it had to be amputated at the shoulder. That’s when he took to the drink. Not a full six months later, Sarah had bled out giving birth to their last child, little Lulie. 

So, at 15 Tom had been motherless, with a drunk, crippled father, three siblings under the age of 7—one of them blind—and a fresh newborn to care for, all the while maintaining his father’s failing business. 

And, for all that, he was the kindest, the most gentle and optimistic soul I’d ever met. He spoke softly, laughed easily, and smiled often—even if there was always a bit of sadness in his eyes. 

I admit I was totally and completely besotted with him in the way that only a horny, pining, teenage boy could be. 

Mary knew. I never told her, but she knew. Devilish as a minx she was. She’d often find excuses to walk through his family’s pasture while he was working, shirtless in the summers—engaging him in conversation and waggling her eyebrows at me behind his back, making me go red and stuttering all over as I tried _not_ to imagine licking the sweat off his chest. 

Tom was a hard worker. Good lord, was he that! But, Robert was drunk, careless, and angry with the world, whiling away the family’s savings on mead and gambling, disappearing for weeks at a time, unthinkingly erasing all the good his son was doing for them. Last year, they were forced to sell most of their cattle to settle his debts. Tom had come to quietly beg flour off us more than once since then. 

So, Robert hadn’t put the cows down quickly enough. 

“They bit him,” Mary said, “and they got to the other cattle in the pasture. Now they’ve all—all of them—gone vicious. They’re too dangerous to even go near. What are we going to do, John?" 

Sherlock might have known a way to purge the sickness from the cattle. I didn’t. And he wasn’t here to guide me. 

“We’ll just have to burn them,” I said. “Maybe he’ll—I hope he’ll know how to make it right afterwards. I don’t know what else to do.”

To tell the truth, despite the horror and waste of it all, I was slightly relieved. I was so desperately glad that it wasn’t some noxious plague or an immense, fire-breathing monster. They had the cattle penned, contained. There was _something_ I could do.

I pulled out the flask of Fireheart potion and showed it to Mary. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

No one argued with the idea when we got to Watson. 

Una, our kind, elderly headwoman, was just as surprised as Mary and the men in Olsha had been to see me scramble down from the sleigh. But, she had bigger worries than reprimanding me. 

I could hear the haunted, ongoing lows of the beasts vibrating through the frigid air, a prolonged death-rattle that I felt in my very marrow. 

Every able-bodied man and woman was working in shifts to keep the poor, tormented cows penned up at the far end of the pasture, using pitchforks and torches, slipping on ice slicks, hands going numb with the cold. The rest of our village was trying to keep them from freezing or starving. 

They were just barely holding on. It was a race to see whose strength would give out first. 

Our village was losing. 

They had tried burning the creatures themselves, but it was too damp and cold. Moisture was frozen into the fibers of the wood. The bonfires hadn’t caught quickly enough and had sputtered out as the deranged cattle had torn apart the piles. 

Una was sweet and grandmotherly; but, in times of crisis she proved to be fiercely steady. As soon as I told her what the potion was, what it did, she was nodding and sending everyone not already working to get ice-axes and shovels to make a firebreak around the pen. 

“Dear, we’ll need your father and brothers to bring in more firewood,” she said, turning to me. “They’re at your house—they worked all night and I had to beg them to go and rest. Bless them. I could send you for them, but that might just be more painful for you when you must go back to the Tower after...Or, I could send someone else…?” 

I swallowed. She wasn’t wrong. But, I found myself shaking my head. 

This was going to hurt like hell.

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meant to make a note of this in the first chapter—the village head woman is named Una, she is really just Mrs. Hudson. But since we don't have a first name for her *shurgs* Plus, I just really love the name Una for this universe so just imagine that her name is Una Hudson ;-P 
> 
> Also, my description/image in my head of Tom is _maybe sort of kind of most definitely_ based on Tom Hiddleston in all his adorable, genuine, and sensitive glory—but it certainly doesn’t have to be read as him. ^_^
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Your kudos and comments keep me going. 
> 
> As always, this is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. 
> 
> \--muckette


	12. Well-done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a slight warning, there is a bit of mild gore and horror in this chapter. I added the tags to the story, but I wanted to warn those who have already been following along. Sorry if that squicks anyone out.

When we got to my house, Mary offered to go in first, to warn them. 

I was unspeakably grateful. 

My mother was already crying when I came through the door. She didn’t see the gold or the velvets or the silly cape at all. Only me. She swept me into her arms and suddenly I was weeping, uncontrollably, messy and gross, like I hadn’t since my first day in the Tower. Neither of us cared.

We were crumpled to the floor, hugging each other when my father and brothers came staggering out of the back rooms, drawn and pale with exhaustion. They fell on me with shouts and powerful enveloping arms. Harry didn’t even smell like booze like the last time I’d hugged him—must have been a couple years ago? I couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. 

I swallowed hard a few times, blinking back my tears. This was not the time. _Get yourself together John._

I tried to surreptitiously wipe my face clean while I told my father what Una needed him to do. He clapped me firmly on the shoulder one last time before he and my brothers hurried out to hitch up the horses. 

I started to follow them but my mother latched onto my sleeve, drawing me to sit with her at the kitchen table for a few more stolen moments. I’d allow myself this selfish comfort. Just this once. 

She smoothed her hands over my face, over and over, as if trying to catalog every minute difference and commit it to memory. “Did he—has he…?”

“He hasn’t touched me, mum.” I reassured her, blushing. I felt a rush of warmth in my belly remembering Sherlock pressed up against me in the library. _Just guiding me._ I didn’t think that counted. At least not in the way she was thinking of. And, I certainly wasn’t going to tell her _anything_ about my run in with Prince Moriarty. 

“He’s—he’s actually sort of ok.” 

I don’t know if she believed me. She didn’t answer, just continued stroking my hair. 

“We’re ready,” my father put his head back in the door. I had to go. 

“Wait! Just…wait a moment.” My mother sprung up from the table.

“Mum, I—” But she had already vanished into the bedroom. She came out with a bundle of my own clothes and things. 

“I-I thought your father might be able to get someone from Olsha to take it up to the Tower for you, you know, in the spring when they take _h-him_ the gifts from the festival.” I found myself blinking back a fresh wave of wetness in my eyes as she kissed my cheek one last time and tucked them in the satchel for me. I hadn’t had the chance to say goodbye to her at the Taking.

It hurt so much more than I thought it would. 

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We went to every house in the village, robbing each woodshed of every last stick my father had once delivered. With the cart piled high, we drove out to the pen. 

That’s when I saw the poor cattle at last. 

They really didn’t even look like cows anymore. Their bodies were bloated, swollen and misshapen. Their shoulder muscles were overgrown and undulating madly while those around their ribs were withered to the point that you could see their hearts racing, impossibly fast, under the molted skin. Wild eyes, clouded and blistered, rolled in their skulls. Here and there, one of them had arrows or even a spear or two thrust deep into their bodies. They careened and smashed about the enclosure, horns grown huge and heavy and twisted, goring each other in passing. One particularly crazed bull was dragging several yards of his own intestines on the frozen ground behind him. It didn’t seem to slow him in the slightest. 

Things that came out of the Wood often couldn’t be killed, except with fire or sometimes beheading. Wounds would only madden them worse. 

The fire would work though. It should. It had to, right? 

They were lunging and slamming their deformed bodies against the heavy wooden fence of the pen, lowing in that deep, horrible way. There was a knot of men and women gathered to meet them, a bristling forest of pitchforks and spears and sharpened sticks, throwing the cattle back from the edge. Others were hacking at the frozen earth around the pen, melting back the snow, tearing up the dead, matted grass—clearing the ground of anything that might catch and spread the fire when it was time. 

Una waved us over. I could smell the corruption on the wind. 

“We’re nearly ready. We’ll toss the wood and hay over in among them. Once that’s all set, we’ll light some torches with the potion and throw them in. Now, you’ll want to save as much of it as you can dear, in case we have to give it a second try,” she added to me. I nodded numbly, still transfixed by the horror of it all. 

More people were appearing from their houses, those who had taken earlier shifts returning for the great final push. We all knew that the cattle would try to stampede out when they were burning—it was nothing more than the natural response of self-preservation. Everyone who could hold a stick took a place in the line to hold them back. Mary and I helped my father and brothers heave piles of hay into the pen, trying to spread it evenly. We followed it with the firewood, creating the massive skeleton of a bonfire around the corrupted beasts. 

I saw Harry and my father swing the last heavy log over the enclosure fence and went to stand by Una. Carefully, I pulled out the flask of Fireheart, feeling the magic in it swirling and hot beneath my fingers, pulsing as though…as though it knew that soon it would be set loose. When Una seemed satisfied with the preparations, she turned to me and held out the first bundled torch to be fired. 

The Fireheart tried to roar right up out of the bottle as soon as I broke the seal. I had to fight to hold the stopper in place for fear that it would spill out like hell itself and devour us all. Thwarted, it fell back sullenly to bubble behind the glass. I glared at the potion. _None of that now. Behave._ It seemed to slow to a roiling simmer. I dared to eek the stopper just the slightest bit from the neck of the bottle. A drop—the least, the tiniest drop—jumped out and fell on the very end of the torch in Una’s hand. 

The log went up in vicious, white-hot flames so quickly that Una barely had a moment to throw it over the fence before she thrust her hand straight into a snowbank, wincing; her hand was already red and blistering past the wrist. I was busy jamming the stopper back in the flask, using every bit of my strength to secure it properly. By the time I looked up, half the pen was engulfed, the cattle shrieking furiously. 

We were all taken aback by the ferocity of the magic in that fire—even me who had witnessed Sherlock demonstrate some truly fantastic things. 

I’d heard the tales of Fireheart growing up, we all had. It figured in endless ballads of warfare and epic sieges, burning whole countries to scorched soil overnight. There were also the stories of its making, of how it required a thousand times its weight in gold to make a single flask. It had to be brewed in cauldrons forged from solid, mountain stone by a wizard of surpassing skill. 

I carefully hadn’t mentioned to anyone that I didn’t exactly have _permission_ to take this potion, _any_ of the potions really, from the Tower. They didn’t need to share that fear as well. If the Dragon was going to be angry, he could be angry with me and me alone. 

But, hearing stories of the stuff was nothing to seeing it in person. 

The sickened cattle were vaulted into a frenzy, their strength seeming to increase in direct relation to their desperation. 

We were so unprepared for this. 

Ten of them clumped together and bore down on the back wall of the paddock enclosure, scrambling and desperate, crushing each other, smashing at the fence heedless of the stakes and spikes on the other side. 

I saw Mary snatch up a sharpened stick to join the fray even as others fell back in terror. I didn’t blame them, we were all terrified of being gored or bitten—even touched by them. The Wood’s evil spread so easily, one could never be too cautious. 

Even as Mary arrived, the fence began to give way. 

I stopped breathing, racking my brain for something, anything I could do. Sherlock would have been able to fix it with a wave of his hand. Literally. But, he’d only taught me a few small spells of mending, and I’d only used those to reattach a torn hem or repair a cracked teacup—and only then after weeks of practice. I still couldn’t cast them very well. But, desperation made me try.

“ _Puran kivitash, paran puran farantem!”_ I’d missed a syllable somewhere, I know I did. But, it must have been close enough. The top wooden slat, the largest one, was nearly split in half, but as I finished the incantation it jumped back into place, splinters knitting back together into a solid log that started sprouting fresh twigs and leaves. 

I watched as Mary thrust her spear into the open, bellowing maw of the closest cow pushing on the fence. The sharpened point pierced straight through and came out the back of its skull. The huge beast fell heavily against the fence and sagged to the ground, dead, blocking the others from coming at it directly. Its swollen purple tongue lolled out of its mouth, steaming in the frigid air. 

Surprisingly, that proved to be the worst of the fight. The defenders who had fallen back were emboldened by Mary’s kill, giving a great cry and rushing back to the front lines. 

It took less than two minutes for all of them to catch fire. A terrible, sulfuric stench stuck in my nose and twisted my stomach. They lost their cunning in their desperate panic and resulted to basic, animal instinct, throwing themselves futilely against the fence walls and one another until the raging fire turned their bones to ash. 

I had to use the mending spell twice more as the fire raced across the fence itself and by the end I was slumped boneless against Mary—she had noticed me lagging after the second casting and had pulled my arm over her shoulders, holding me up so I could keep going. 

We were all panting when the last stubborn bull crumpled and fell. 

I felt Mary sigh in relief right along with me. I huffed out an exhausted laugh and kissed her temple. We took a moment to watch some of the older children running around with buckets of snow to toss on any ember or spark that jumped free of the paddock. Eventually, the Fireheart settled down and burned low, the flames cooling from white to red to orange until everything was down to embers. Every last man and woman was red-faced and sweaty with the heat and exhaustion. 

But, we’d done it. We’d kept the beasts penned and neither the corruption nor the fire had spread. Many were coughing, but no one spoke and no one cheered. There wasn’t any cause for celebration. The danger was averted, but the cost to the village would be immense. Robert’s family wasn’t the only one that would be impoverished by this tragedy. 

Tom was leaning, alone, against a tree on the edge of the pasture, sweating and covered in soot like the rest of us. He had appeared with the last wave of reinforcements and fought brilliantly to hold the fence. Now he was staring down at the snow, crumpled in on himself, dejected and lost. I saw him shudder out a breath and push off the trunk, making his way back toward his family’s cottage.

His bright blue eyes were wide and distant, shell-shocked, when I caught his sleeve.

“Is your father—is he still alive?” 

He blinked at me, as if he wasn’t sure if I was really there. He gave a short, abortive nod.

“John…” And really, half a year ago I’d have given anything to hear my name come from his lips. But, this was a wrecked and wretched plea—his soft voice cracked and unrecognizable with the smoke and utter anguish. “John…it’s bad. It’s so very…”

The Wood-sickness wasn’t always incurable—Sherlock had been able to save others, I knew that. During the Green Summer, he had cured nearly a dozen struck sick with the corrupted pollen. But, this was the worst taking by the Wood I’d ever seen. I wasn’t the Dragon. And I had no idea when he’d return. 

“I saw you. What you did,” Tom gestured weakly at the charred fence where the areas I had mended were still sprouting new, green growth. “Do you think…is there anything that you could do for him?” 

Every line of his face was pleading. I knew what he was really asking. 

It was a slow and excruciating death, if the corruption wasn’t purged. The Wood, flowing through your veins, invading your muscles, consuming you like rot eating away at a tree, hollowing you out from the inside. It left only a monstrous, empty thing, full of poison that cared for nothing but continuing to spread its corruption to others.

I swallowed hard. If I said that there was nothing I could do—said I was spent from the little magic I had done, that I didn’t know enough, that the Dragon was still at least a week gone—then Una would be forced to give the word. 

Tom would be taken to the far side of village, shielding his little brother and sisters as best he could, as a gang of men went into his cottage and dragged Robert out to be added to the bonfire. 

Tom was begging me with every fiber in his being for another option. 

“There are a few things I can try.”

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Robert’s cottage was near the edge of the village, not far from the pasture where the cattle had been penned. Mary took my arm as we followed Tom to his door. She could tell that I needed the support without a word spoken between us. 

As we came near the house, I began to hear him—a snarling, crackling, continuous moan, occasionally dissolving into wet, heavy gurgles before beginning again, louder. Tom’s stride stuttered. But, he shook his head and squared his shoulders before we rounded the corner. 

His siblings were sitting on the porch, huddled together against the cold and horror. Little Lulie was curled in a ball on Alice’s lap, face buried in her sister’s neck. Alice’s scarred, white eyes were wide and unseeing as she attempted to sing them the song about the magpie searching for its treasure. They were all clean and neat—Tom had always seen to that, even in the worst of times—but, each of them had raw and blotchy tracks falling over their cheeks and chins from the crying. Benjamin’s little teeth were chattering, he was shaking so hard. 

Alice stopped singing as she heard us crunching through the snow. Eliza and Benjamin scrambled off the porch to throw themselves against Tom’s legs. 

“Hush. Hush now, I know,” he pet back their hair and kissed their foreheads. “I had to go. They needed my help. But I’ve—I’ve brought someone to...You remember John, don’t you?” 

Their wild and wondering eyes took me in. I must have looked a strange and marvelous thing by then—dressed like royalty, hair spiked and matted with sweat and soot, gold glittering through layers of grim—perhaps some prince of death come to steal another member of their family. 

“Dragonborn…” Benjamin whimpered before he locked his arms around Tom’s waist and buried his face in the cloth of his shirt. He had the same wavy, dark blond hair as Tom. 

Tom caught my eyes, his brow pinched and mouth tight in apology. “It’s been confusing for him…for us all really, since the Taking.” He was looking at me, expectantly, as if I had some answer for him.

At first I didn’t know what he was talking about— _what did this have to do with the Taking?_ Then it hit me: Benjamin was seven this past November. A Dragonborn year. He’d lived his life not having to worry about the possibility of being taken, having been born a boy. But now…now no one was safe, as far as anyone knew. When he looked at me, he saw himself in ten years’ time. The Dragon’s captive.

“Oh, Benjamin, no. It’s not like that. He’s not—he won’t…” I stopped. Did I really know that Sherlock wouldn’t choose Benjamin at the next Taking? I was fairly sure that he’d only broken his string of girls for me because of the magic. But not sure enough to assure this little boy. And, for the first time in several weeks, I remembered to hate the Dragon. For doing this. For causing this amount of fear in his people. A little boy who had lost so much, whose corrupted father was moaning in misery not thirty feet away, could still suffer from such new, fresh terror. At that moment, I made a decision. 

“Benjamin, I am going to make you a promise. I am going to do everything in my power to make sure that you—that _**no one**_ will be taken by the Dragon again. You have my word.” I hadn’t the faintest idea how I was going to accomplish this, but I knew I had to try. For Benjamin. For Tom. For all of them. 

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The moaning was so much louder inside the house. 

There was a fierce, necrotic stench permeating the structure. I could see why Tom was keeping the children outside. 

The cottage itself was small, three rooms total with only flimsy curtains separating the bedrooms from the main living space. Tom led us to the narrow entrance of a back bedroom, drawing back the curtain. 

Robert was lying on the bed. A heavy, clunky thing made of small, rough logs jointed firmly together—but for that we could only be grateful. He had been tied, hand and foot, with course rope to the wooden posts. He was bound about the chest and around the whole bedframe a dozen times to compensate for the missing tie on his left side, where his amputated arm should have been. His feet were bare, the ends of his toes blackened and the nails peeling off, as if they were already dead. Open sores across his body oozed blood and foul yellow pus where the bindings rubbed him. He was jerking and pulling against his restraints, making that terrible moan—his tongue dark and swelling past his lips.  
He stopped when we entered the room. 

His head perked up, looking straight at me with his yellow-stained eyes—a wolf just caught a scent. He started to cackle, his teeth red with blood. 

“Look at you then!” he rattled in an awful sing-songy voice. “ ‘ittle, baby wizard! Look at you, look at you…”

He jerked his body against the ropes so forcefully that the whole bed jumped an inch across the floor towards us, grinning straight at me. There surely couldn’t be that many teeth in one person’s mouth, could there? 

“Come closer now, child. Don’t be shy! _Come come come…”_ he sang, “ Widdle ‘ittle Johnny, _come come **come!”**_ like a horrible children’s song, the bed hopping across the floor, one lurch at a time. 

My hands were shaking as I pulled open my bag of potions, determinedly not looking at him. I had never been so close to someone taken by the Wood before. Terror was like a stone in my stomach. I felt Mary’s hand on my shoulder, standing straight and calm at my side, lending me her support. My knees may well have buckled without her there. I pulled out the flask with the bright, yellow elixir. 

I couldn’t remember the chant that Sherlock had done when he was healing Moriarty—and had no hope of reproducing it if I could. But, he had taught me a simple charm to heal small cuts and bruises—as I was quite the expert at collecting them. It wasn’t the same, nowhere near it. But it was something. 

I gave my hands a rough shake to steady them before pouring a large swallow of the elixir into a spoon. The rotting fish smell had me reeling. I forced myself to breathe through my mouth as I began singing the short, healing incantation, leaning over the bed. 

Robert snapped at me with his impossibly sharp teeth, arching his back, twisting his hand bloody against the rope, trying to scratch me. I flinched back. I didn’t dare let him cut me.

“Hold on.” Mary said, going back to the kitchen and returning with a fire poker and the heavy leather glove meant for stirring up coals. “Tom, get on that side.”

Together, they laid the poker across Robert’s collarbone, pressing his shoulders down on the bed from either side. Tom pressed his knee against his father’s chest, holding firm with all his strength. Then Mary—my sweet, fearless Mary—put on the glove and reached down from above to pinch tight his nose. She held on determinedly, even as he pitched and writhed, whipping his head back and forth until he finally had to open his mouth for breath. 

I tipped the spoon into his mouth and watched the elixir fall down his throat, jumping back just in time—Robert heaved his chin up and managed to snap his incisors into the trailing black silk of my sleeve. I ripped my arm free, still singing my charm in a halting, wavering voice. 

There wasn’t that same, blazing glow I remembered from when Sherlock had used it on the Prince, but at least Robert’s awful chanting had stopped. I watched the dim gleam of the elixir travel down his throat. He fell back against the mattress, seizing and jarring from side to side, emitting snarling groans of protest. 

Mary and Tom kept him pinned, as best they could. I kept singing my chant, my voice rough and torn. I was so tired, so _drained._ But, I kept singing. I couldn’t bear to stop—not if it meant that I might be able to change the horror of what was in front of me. 

The glow of the elixir was sitting in Robert’s belly, glowering like a tiny, sputtering coal. I watched a few of the bloody welts across his chest start to close. But, even as I sang on, little whispers of smoky green—just a few at first, then more and more—drifted over and smothered the dim light. 

His body stopped jerking and sagged into the bed, eyes closed. My chanting trailed off into silence. Mary and Tom slowly eased back and I edged a little closer, still hopeful…

I was hovering right over him when his head jerked back off the bed, eyes mad and rolling. “Try again, Johnny!” he cackled at me, snapping at the air like a rabid dog as I jumped back. “Come and try again! That tickled so! Come here, come here!”

I felt sick and hollow with failure. Tom and Mary had staggered back as Robert continued to laugh, thrashing the bed forward again, thumping the heavy legs on the wooden floor, a terrifying percussion. Nothing had changed. If anything, he seemed rejuvenated by my efforts.

The Wood had won. The corruption was too strong, too far advanced. And I was weak and stupid and—

“John?” Mary said softly, unhappily. A question. 

I dragged the back of my hand hard across my eyes, trying to wipe away my despair. I needed to focus. Mary was watching me anxiously. I tried to give her a little reassuring smile, but I couldn’t seem to make my mouth work properly. I grimly dug into my satchel again. 

“Go outside. Both of you.” I was removing the heavy silken cape from my shoulders. 

“But John—!”

“We can’t just leave you—“

“You have to trust me. Just _go!_ ” I was winding the heavy fabric around my face. Mary looked like she wasn’t going to leave but she allowed Tom to guide her out. I wrapped the cape around my head three or four times, making sure that my mouth and nose were completely covered. Smothering myself. 

I pulled in as deep a breath as I could manage through the gag and held it. I broke the seal of the gray, churning flask, pouring out a little cloud of the Stonepotion onto Robert’s grinning, manic face. 

I jumped back and recorked the bottle as swiftly as I could. He was already gasping in the cloud of potion, the smoke curling into his nostrils and mouth. A mask of surprise slipped onto his face, enraged and shocked. Then his skin was graying, hardening before my very eyes. 

He fell silent as his mouth froze into a horrible gasping snarl. Stone rolled over his body like a wave. His eyes stopped rolling and were fixed open and unfocused. His whole body stiffened, his fingers locking into frozen claws. Then he was still.

I allowed myself to take a cautious breath. The stink of corruption was fading. 

I was shaking with relief, exhaustion, and horror all mingled together. Robert was gone. In his place a stone statue lay tied down upon the bed—a statue only a madman would have carved, the face twisted with inhuman rage, a study in grotesquery. 

Mary and Tom were standing ankle deep in snow, surrounded by the children, in the garden when I opened the door. Tom was biting his lip, gravely hopeful. 

I stood back from the door and let them in. Tom went back to the narrow doorway and stopped, staring down at the statue on the bed. 

“He…he doesn’t feel any pain,” I tried to reassure him. “He won’t—he doesn’t feel time moving like we do. I promise. He’ll just drift…But, this way, if the Dragon _does_ know of some way to purge the corruption…” I trailed off. It felt like such a weak consolation. Tom made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and sunk down into a chair, head buried in his hands—as if he just now felt the heavy weight he had been carrying his whole life and he just couldn’t bear it anymore. 

I don’t know if I’d done him any real kindness. I’d never heard of anyone taken as badly as Robert being healed. 

“I—I don’t know how to save him,” I said softly, my voice was little more than an emotional croak. “But maybe—maybe the Dragon will. When he comes back. I thought…maybe it was worth the chance.”

I found myself reaching out to push back the dark blond locks that had fallen across his eyes. As I touched him, a bit of the terrible blank distance left his handsome face. At least the house was quiet now. The howling and moaning had taken up so much space. 

“Yes, of course…” He blinked at me, seeming to find himself again. “Could I get you something? Are you hungry? I could get you…” he glanced around the stark kitchen, its shelves barren. I felt a pang in my stomach that had nothing to do with hunger. No mother. No cattle. And now, no father. Una would help him and the little ones, of course she would. But, it was going to be a hard year for everyone in Watson. 

“Actually,” I said abruptly, “do you happen to have a change of clothes I could have? In exchange for these of course.” I saw his eyes flick over the expensive materials, golden belt, and the embellished buttons.

“John, I can’t just—”

“Honestly, you’d be doing me a huge favor. I can hardly stand to take another step in this monstrosity.” I flapped the cape a bit to demonstrate, giving a self-deprecating grin. He huffed a laugh and graced me with a small genuine smile. 

He gave a few more noises of protest before halting digging out a pair of patched homespun trousers, a shirt, and a rough woolen cloak. They were all too long and big, but I could smell him about the collar. I was more than happy to leave the pile of black velvets and silks heaped on the kitchen table, the gold belt glittering on top. It would surely be worth the cost of a couple cows from the next village over. Milk would be dear in Watson for a while. 

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It was growing dark when Mary and I stepped outside and waved goodbye. The coals from the bonfire in the pen were still smoldering, a smudge of glowing orange in the distance. All the houses were still deserted. The cold air nipped at me through my thinner clothes. I was absolutely drained to the dregs as I stumbled along beside Mary who would occasionally offer her arm for support. 

As we walked, one tiny, happy thought occurred to me. I couldn’t get back in the Tower. Not on my own anyway. So, I would go home to my mother and stay at my family’s house until Sherlock came for me again— _where else would I wait?_ I could see Sherlock rolling his eyes at the thin excuse in my mind.

“He’ll be at least a week,” I said to Mary, “and maybe he’ll be so fed up with me that he’ll throw a fit and leave me behind.” I paused, realizing that I probably shouldn’t have said that. “Don’t tell anyone I said that.” 

Suddenly, Mary stopped in her tracks. She spun around and threw her arms around me, squeezing me tight. 

“I was ready to go,” she whispered. “All those years—I was ready to be brave and go. But—but, oh John, I just couldn’t _bear_ it when he took you. It felt as if it had all been for nothing. Everyone was just going on the same, as if you had never even been here—” She stopped. 

Her face changed and she jerked on my arm, pulling me backwards. I turned. 

They came out of the trees slowly. Silent, measured paces on wide-spread paws.

Wolves would occasionally hunt in our forest, small and quick, lithe and gray.

But these were nothing like our wolves. 

Their heavy, white-furred backs rose past the height of my waist, huge jaws filled with three rows of sharp, serrated teeth cramped in on one another. 

They looked at us—they looked at _me_ \--with pale yellow eyes. 

_The sickened cattle had been wolf-bitten._

The wolf in the front scented the air, leering at me, then jerked his head sideways. Never taking his eyes off me. Two more came padding out of the trees, the pack spreading out as if he had signaled them to circle us, to block us in. 

They were hunting. They were hunting **me.**

“Mary,” I whispered, as evenly as I could, my heart pounding. “Go. Mary, you need to run. _Go, now!”_

I yanked my arms out of her grip and fumbled in my bag. She hadn’t moved. 

“ _Mary **go**_!” I shouted and pulled loose the stopper, flinging the remainder of the Stonepotion at the lead wolf as he sprang. 

He was swallowed by a cloud of swirling gray and then the great stone statue of a wolf fell like a boulder at my feet, the snarling jaws snapping for my ankle even as they stilled. A second wolf was caught by the edge of the cloud, a wave of stone creeping more slowly up its back legs and over its body as it pawed the snow with its front feet, trying to escape.

I was yanked back. Mary had grabbed me by the arm and was pulling me up and back toward the nearest house. I heard the wolves howl a terrible chorus of loss before one of them yelped dominantly and the rest fell in line, loping after us again. 

Mary pulled us through the gate of the front garden and slammed it. It made no matter. The wolves leapt the fence as lightly as a springing deer. I didn’t dare try the Fireheart, not after what I’d seen that day—it would swallow us up in an instant and there was no protection here against it spreading to engulf the whole village, maybe the entire valley. 

I drew out the small, pale-green vial instead, hoping it would be enough distraction to get us inside the house. 

_”It grows grass,” Sherlock had said in that bored way of his, “And, an inordinate amount of weeds, really. Not of much use unless you’ve had to burn a field bare. Or if you’ve developed a perverse interest in topiaries.”_

Nonetheless, I wrenched free the cork and felt it spill out over my fingers. It smelled wonderful. Good and clean and fresh—sticky like crushed grass in my hands. I threw it out of my cupped hand to spray over the snow covered ground. 

Vines erupted like striking snakes, brilliant and green, from the dead vegetable beds. They sprung at the charging wolves, wrapping thick coils around their legs, yanking them to the ground mere feet from where Mary and I stood. 

Everything was suddenly growing, pulsing and undulating, like a year lapsed into a few seconds. Beans and melons and pumpkins the sizes of horses popped up, sprawling across and eating up the empty ground. 

They blocked the way to us even as the wolves fought and snapped at the vines. I watched in fascinated horror as the vines grew large and vicious, thick as my forearm and sprouting thorns like knives. I saw them constrict and crush a wolf with a sickeningly wet grinding sound just as an enormous pumpkin fell and smashed another into the frozen earth even as it burst, spraying fist-sized seeds everywhere. 

Mary snatched my wrist as I gawked. Wrenching myself back to sense, I turned and stumbled after her. The front door of the house was blocked by roof high cabbages, so she directed us instead to an empty stable—really only a shanty structure fit for pigs—but we flew inside and slammed the door. 

There was no pitchfork or rake—they’d all been taken to fight the cattle. Really the only thing left in terms of a weapon was a small hand-axe, dulled from chopping wood. Still, I seized it up in desperation as Mary braced the door. The whole structure shook as the crafty, remaining wolves slammed it with their heavy bodies. 

I shoved my shoulder against the door even as they clawed and scratched and dug at it. Then, ominously, they stopped. We could just hear them moving over the sound of our ragged panting. 

One of them howled on the other side of the stable and my eyes snapped to the small high window on the far side. Three of them spilled through it, leaping one after another. Still others howled at our backs on the other side of the door. 

I tried to think of a spell, any small charm Sherlock had tried to teach me, anything that might be of any help against them. I felt the magic thrumming underneath my skin, waiting to be called on. Maybe the potion had renewed me, like it had the garden. Or maybe it was just sheer and utter panic. 

I knew that _vanastalem_ could summon up armor—but that would do nothing to help Mary. I grasped around in my memory, searching for more…then, I snatched up the old, battered tin water dish and desperately gasped out “ _Rautalem?_ ”—muddling it up with a spell meant for sharpening kitchen knives. I had no real idea of what it would do, but I hoped. 

Maybe the magic really was trying to save me—or itself—because the dish stretched and flattened and turned into a massive shield forged of heavy steel. 

I pulled Mary behind it with me and crowded us up into a corner as the wolves leapt for us. She grabbed the small axe from my numb fingers and hacked at their claws and muzzles as they scrabbled around the edges. 

We both had an arm looped through the shield’s handles, clinging to it desperately. 

I saw, from the crack between the shield and the wall, a wolf— _a bloody wolf!_ —strut determinedly to the stable door and, with its nose, nudge the bar up and open. Then the whole of the pack was on us again. 

There was nowhere left to run. No tricks left in my bag. I clung to Mary behind the shield. Staring into her terrified green eyes, both of us realizing that this would be it. Then, the entire wall of the stable ripped away from behind us into the cold, dark night. 

We fell backwards into the snow, sliding to a halt at his feet. He was absolutely transformed with rage, eyes glowing and golden. An otherworldly being, transcendental and terrifying—for the first time, I realized that I had never actually met the Dragon before. 

_**This**_ was the Dragon. 

Ancient and terrible, come to incinerate us with his terrible fire.

The wolf pack leapt for him at once, howling, but he raised a downturned fist and chanted one long impossible line without pause for breath. Then he flung open his fist.  


And, all at the same time, the wolves _**broke**_. 

With the dreadful sound of a thousand snapping twigs, they were rent apart in midair, pieces falling like bloody rain from the heavens to splash upon the white snow. 

Mary and I clung to each other as the last bits of the wolves corpses thumped down around us with wet smacks against the earth. For a few moments all I could do was breathe. Then, sheepishly, I stretched my neck back to look up at him. 

He was still stiff and furious. But…he was Sherlock again. The Dragon was gone. His eyes were that cool, icy blue once more as he glared down his nose at me, condescendingly. I almost laughed in relief. 

“Of all the _monstrously idiotic, asinine, **pig-brained**_ things you could have done, you _absolute lunatic of a boy—!”_

**”Look out!”** Mary cried out, too late. 

One last, limping wolf—its fur covered in orange streaks of pumpkin—flung itself at him over the garden wall. Sherlock snapped out a spell as he turned, but even as it fell dead, the beast caught him. 

One sharp claw raked a thin, red line down his forearm. I watched as three bright drops of blood slid down his fingers and stained the snow crimson at his feet. 

He snapped in on himself, I could almost see the mental walls come up as he sank to his knees, gripping his arm tight at the elbow. The dark fabric of his sleeve was torn and gaping—his flesh already tinging green with the corruption around the scratch. The sickly color halted where the fingers of his other hand gripped his elbow, like a tourniquet. 

He was breathing deliberately slow, in and out through his nose, glaring down at his arm. A faint blue glowing light was lining his fingers. But, I could see the veins under his pale skin swelling and twisting. 

I scrambled up and tore through my satchel for the elixir. I yanked out the stopper, intending to tip it into his mouth. 

_“Pour it on,”_ he spat through gritted teeth. 

So, I splashed the elixir directly on the wound and held my breath. The horrific stain didn’t recede—it only slowed in its creeping invasion. 

“The Tower,” he said, voice grating in his throat. His dark curls were sticking to where sweat had sprung out across his forehead, his jaw clenched almost beyond speech. “John, **listen** : _Zokinen valise, akenezh hinisu, kozhonen valise.”_

I stared. He couldn’t mean—he didn’t trust _me_ to do it, to spell us back? Could he? 

But, he didn’t say anything else. His shoulders rigid, all his strength absorbed in holding back the corruption. 

I remembered, too late what he’d told me, how if the Wood had taken me—untrained and useless little wizard that I was—it could have made some truly dreadful horror out of me.

Then, what would it make of _**him?**_

I turned to Mary, digging in my satchel, and pressed the bottle of Fireheart into her hands. “Tell Una—tell her, she _**must**_ send someone to the Tower. If he doesn’t—if we don’t _**both**_ come out, if there is any doubt at all—burn it to the ground.”

Her eyes were round as coins, full of desperate worry for me, but she nodded, understanding the gravity of it all. I fell to my knees in the snow next to the Dragon. “Good,” he grit out with just the briefest dart of his eyes from me to Mary, and I knew that my worst fears weren’t unfounded. 

I gripped him by the shoulders, feeling his raging warmth charge up my arms, emboldening me. I closed my eyes tight. And, thinking of my cold little room at the top of the Tower, I spoke the words.

 

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So….this chapter got a bit out of control. I’m feeling almost as drained as John after writing it! Lol. Think of it as me making up for the past two being kind of short. ^_^ I know some of you were missing Sherlock—so was I! But, John needed some time to prove himself _to himself_ , don’t you think? And, as we all know, Sherlock always returns ;P
> 
> I’d love to know what you all think, I really appreciate your kudos and comments. 
> 
> As always, this is unbeated so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.  
> \--muckette


	13. Giving Breath

My teeth clacked painfully and my knees threatened to buckle as we crashed down hard against the stone floor of my Tower room. I didn’t remember stepping out of space being this violent when Sherlock had done it before—of course, that’s probably because I’d been too busy retching to register much else. 

There was no hope getting him down to his own room, he was so much bigger than me—all long, inconvenient limbs and deadweight. And really, it made absolutely no sense for a man that thin to weigh that much! I had a moment of panic when I wasn’t sure I’d be able to lever him onto the bed at all and would have to leave him lying on the cold floor. 

He was still gripping his arm steadfastly at the elbow—holding back the corruption somehow—but the blue glow around his fingers was flickering and growing fainter. The small scratch had swelled up like the worst kind of spider bite, black webs of corruption leaching out down the veins of his forearm. 

I eased him back against the pillows and hovered anxiously, looking for some sign or signal in his face, some direction as to what I was supposed to do next. But, he didn’t speak, still completely turned in on himself, taking deliberately slow, measured breaths. His eyes were closed, darting rapidly behind the skin of his eyelids, as if he was having a private battle inside his mind. He wasn’t going to be able to tell me how to help him. Still, I had to do something. 

I skidded and scraped my shins bloody on the stairs in my haste to get to the library. The towers and piles of books were untroubled by my panicked need. Some of them were familiar to me by now—old, cherished enemies—full of charms and incantations that went squiffy and sideways in my mouth during my lessons. I riffled through the piles on the table and next to Sherlock’s chair anyway, flipping wildly through the pages, the parchment tingling unpleasantly under my fingers. 

It was useless. I slammed shut the cover of the book in my hands and pulled at my hair. _Think John!_ The answer wasn’t going to be in one of these books—they were full of charms and trivialities. Things _“any witless novice should be able to master in a heartbeat,”_ Sherlock had said. Repeatedly. 

My eyes were drawn to the lower shelves behind his chair, the ones full of the books that I was expressly forbidden from touching, the ones he read himself. That seemed a more likely place to start. Some were so old that they were crumbling as I ran my hands over them. On impulse, I pulled out a smaller brown volume that positively bristled with inserted sheets of paper. Its soft cover was worn smooth to the point that I couldn’t read the stamped lettering on the spine.

It appeared to be a journal of some sort, written in a tiny, messy scrawl full of scribbles and abbreviations that made it almost impossible to read. The loose sheets were pages and pages of notes in Sherlock’s own elegant hand. At least one or two were shoved in between each leaf where he’d written out different ways to cast each spell and little explanations of his methods. 

This… _this_. I could work with this. It was almost as if he was guiding me through his inked words. 

There seemed to be at least a dozen spells of healing—ways of mending bones and fixing gangrene, but nothing to battle the Wood’s corruption. Still, it had to be worth trying. 

I was drawn to one spell, my fingers growing warm over the words—it advised lancing the wound before packing it full of lemon peel and rosemary, then doing something that the author inexplicably called _putting breath on it_. Sherlock had written four and a half cramped pages of notes and charts that detailed at least five dozen variations. He’d obviously been experimenting—that much rosemary, dried or fresh, that much lemon, zested or chopped, an iron knife or a steel one, this incantation or that one, and so on. 

Naturally, he hadn’t bothered to write down which variation had worked best. But, if he had spent so much time on it, then it must be worth something, right? I just had to do enough, push back the infection just enough to allow him to speak and give me further instructions. 

The door and window—my makeshift rope still dangling out—were wide open. But, even so, the stink of corruption had begun to permeate my small room when I returned, arms laden with a bundle of rosemary, a lemon, a clean paring knife, some fresh linens, and a large pot of boiling water. 

It turned my stomach. 

I didn’t think I could bear to see Sherlock corrupted—all his crisp edges melted away, his sharp wit reduced to howls and snarls. 

His face had gone terribly pale. 

Sinking to my knees, I quickly set to laying the linens under his arm. Then, I tore long strips of lemon peel and pulled bunches of the rosemary leaves off the stems, crushing them between my fingers before dropping them into the hot water. I kept adding bits until a strong, sweet smell started pushing away the stench. I bit my lip, still unsure, but I made myself pick up the knife. 

I held my breath as I drew the blade down his forearm, cutting the same red track the wolf’s claw had left. Tarry, green bile bubbled out of the wound. I poured cup after cup of the hot, scented water over his arm until it stopped leaking the foul substance. Then, I grabbed two generous fistfuls of the rosemary/lemon poultice and packed them tightly onto the cut. 

I paused. I had no idea what it meant to _‘put breath’_ on the wound—Sherlock’s notes hadn’t mentioned it—so, I took it literally. I bent my head low over his arm and breathed out the incantations, barely giving voice to them, instead filling them with as much air as possible. I tried one then another, each one of the many variations that Sherlock had listed. 

Nothing was happening, but that didn’t surprise me—they all felt wrong, all awkward and hard-edged in my mouth. I rocked back on my knees and glared at his arm, as if I could will it to work. 

Frustrated, I set aside Sherlock’s notes and went back to the original text. I noticed a scribbled line in one of the margins that simply said _Kai and Tihas, sung as seems good, will have especial virtue._ I had even less of an idea what to make of that. Sherlock’s incantations had all been variations of those syllables, interspersed with others, strung out and built up into long, intricate phrases that had gone all tangled on my tongue. 

_Sung as seems good…_ Ok then. 

I bent my head again, cupping his arm gently in my hands, and began to sing lowly, my voice rough with exhaustion. I’d never been one for singing much—always preferring to listen to Mary rather than hear my own craggy voice. But, I let the words tumble forward with my breath onto the poultice and wound. _Tihas, tihas, kai tihas, kai tihas, tihas, kai…_ I found myself falling into the rhythm of the song about living a hundred years, often sung at birthdays. The sound was easy and comforting. 

Absolutely absurd. Positively ridiculous, and yet…

I stopped having to think about the words, just letting them dot about on the rhythm of that old, familiar tune. They filled my mouth and bubbled over like water from a cup. I let the warmth of them overwhelm me, blotting out the horrors of the day—the sick cows, the snarling wolves, Robert’s mad laughter. There was only the easy movement of the song and the memories of gathering around a table with my brothers, my mother’s laughter and Mary’s smile. 

The magic began to flow. 

It wasn’t the same as when Sherlock’s spell lessons dragged it out of me in bursts and starts. Instead, it seemed that the sound of the chanting had become a road, a stream for the magic to flow down. I was just helping it float along a bit. 

The sweet fragrance of lemon and rosemary was rising strong, surrounding me. More and more of the wretched, green bile was leaking from the wound, but I could no longer smell the corruption. The greenish cast was fading from his pale skin, the swollen veins lightening and shrinking back. 

I used so much breath I was going lightheaded. But, it didn’t matter—it dawned on me that I was finished, that it was done. 

I brought my chanting to a simple close—going up then down a note in a hum. The shinning blue glow where he held his arm was growing stronger. Abruptly, the light shot down his arm, chasing across the veins like branches. The rot was gone, his skin healthy and smooth again. 

His body shifted. I watched as his fingers, one after another unfurled from their iron grip around his elbow. I exhaled a small laugh. I couldn’t believe it. It had worked. I felt a grin working its way onto my face as I looked up at him. His eyes were open and he was staring straight at me, face a battle of astonished outrage and scrutinizing curiosity

I leaned back, suddenly aware of how close I had been crowding him. His glacial eyes followed me. He sniffed and looked down.

He’d stripped the rosemary and lemon packing from his now unmarked arm and was holding it in his fist, glaring at it incredulously. Then he lunged at me—far too suddenly for someone who had been a beat away from dead a moment ago—to snatch the small brown journal from where it still lay open across my thighs. He blinked at the spell then turned it over to look at the spine.

“What the hell have you done _now?_ ”

“ _Oi!_ I just saved your life!” I shot back, crossing my arms indignantly. “It worked, didn’t it?” But, he was already up and flying out of the room, muttering over the book and working himself up to a massive strop.  


“You could _thank me_ , you know?” I shouted after him. His footsteps had faded to nothing before I remembered that he had only been wounded because he came after me. And, that thought only pushed me into more of a sulk. I was too tired for this.

With the last bit of my strength, I flipped the duvet up to shake it clear of the soiled bandages and bits of rosemary before sinking down onto the mattress and falling into a dead sleep. 

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter, but I didn't want to keep you in suspense for too long ;P
> 
> More to come soon. Thanks so much for all the kudos and comments, they mean more than you know!
> 
> As always, this work is unbetaed so all mistakes are mine and mine alone :)
> 
> \--muckette


	14. A New Path

I woke slowly, warm and peaceful, feeling the late afternoon sunlight on my skin, only gradually realizing that I wasn’t alone. 

He was lounging theatrically on the window sill, draped in his blue, silk dressing gown, staring out of the glass and turning the small brown book over and over in his hands. 

“What made you pick _this_ up?” He hadn’t looked at me once but he knew I was awake. I sighed and closed my eyes again, scrubbing my palms across them roughly. I wondered how long he had been sitting there, waiting for me to wake up. 

Well, I was still irked so he could wait a little longer. 

Instead of answering him, I took a few moments to stretch languidly, rolling my shoulders, arching my back, and curling my toes—grunting as my neck popped in a deeply satisfying way. When I opened my eyes again he was staring at me, brow knit and expression unreadable. 

“Well? If you are quite finished rolling around like a wanton—”

“It was full of notes,” I yawned. “Seemed like it might be worth something. Maybe important.”

“It is _not_ important. It is very _un_ important. Useless in fact.” It was hard for me to believe him with his fingers rapping a staccato rhythm on its spine, his legs bouncing anxiously, eyes bright. “It has _been_ useless since it was written over five hundred years ago, and the past _century_ of study I’ve conducted since acquiring it has not made it any _less_ useless.” 

“Well,” I sighed, propping myself up against the pillows so I could look more smug when I crossed my arms, “it wasn’t exactly _useless_ last night, was it?”

Suddenly, he was crowding the edge of the bed, positively looming—the better to interrogate me. “How did you know how much rosemary to use? Hmmm? How much lemon?”

“Well, you had all sorts of combinations in your notes and didn’t bother to say which worked best. So, I didn’t think it mattered much.”

“Didn’t think it mattered—! Those were exact, calculated, and calibrated measures, rigorously and methodically tested in controlled, scientific experiments— _failed_ experiments! None of them had the least effect—not with any combination, any incantation I tried. What did you _do?_ ”

“And how was I supposed to know that? I just added bits of rosemary and lemon until it smelled nice—I let it steep a bit because that makes tea stronger so I figured it might do the same here—and then I just used the chant from the page.”

“The chant from the—” he glared down at the spell in the book, as if it had personally insulted him. “There _is_ no chant here, no incantation! Two tiny, trivial words with no power behind them—”

“Well they worked fine for me!” I snapped back. “It just—when I sang them long enough the magic just flowed. I didn’t really think about it.” Two angry patches of red appeared high on his cheekbones. “I sang it to the tune of ‘Many Years’.” I added. 

He went positively scarlet with sputtering indignity. 

He spent the next hour interrogating me, perched on the edge of my bed like a massive, frustrated crow, each answer further ruffling his feathers. 

I didn’t have the answers for the questions he was asking—he wanted exact syllables and the number of repetitions, how close I had been to his arm when I started and when I finished, how many leaves of rosemary added how far apart. I tried answering him as best I could and he scribbled every word furiously on a fresh sheaf of parchment.

After I told him that I simply ripped off handfuls of rosemary—two? Three? Five?—he scoffed and insisted on measuring the size of my hands—from the wrist to the top of my middle finger, from thumb tip to pinky tip, across the palm, then diagonally and each finger individually. I decided it was time to abandon the bed when he pulled off the tie of his dressing gown and attempted to use it to measure the circumference of my fist. 

I kicked off the covers and went to wash my face in the basin. He followed me about the room, undeterred, a very annoying and noisy shadow. He questioned me right to the doorway without looking up from his notes.

“Could I have a minute of privacy please?” I motioned for him to step out.

“How much breath did you use?”

“Yes, in a mo—I have to—”

“Let me see your mouth.”

“Just give me a second to—”

“Here, blow on this—”

“ _Sherlock!_ I need to use the _chamberpot!_ ” I’m not sure if he was more shocked by the door slamming in his face or my audacity—I’d never dared to use his proper name before, always calling him ‘Sir’ or ‘my Lord’ when I had to address him. I went about my business, listening to the yawning silence of his gears turning behind the door, wondering if he was going to burst back in to start reprimanding me or let it pass. 

The silence stretched for a pregnant moment before his voice filtered back through the wood.

“Did you have a full bladder when you cast the spell? Which hand did you use to apply the poultice? Your dominant hand? Is it the same hand you use to hold your—?”

“ ** _Sherlock!_** ” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  


When I finished washing up and opened the door again he was still stood there bouncing on his heels, waiting for me. I ducked past him and started down the stairs, hoping he might turn off and head to the library. But, he single-mindedly dogged my footsteps all the way down to the cellar, nose in his notes, quill scratching away, and mouth running. 

I set to assembling a simple chicken soup, having to dance and sidestep around the tower of Sherlock standing tall and blindly unconcerned in the middle of my workspace. He continued to pepper me with queries—“Come here, I need to look at your fingernails”—until I stopped chopping chicken and slammed the cleaver down hard on the butcher’s block. His head snapped up, looking around, seemingly bewildered as to why he was in the cellar or how he got there. 

“Oh my g—Can’t you see none of that matters!” I’m not sure what made those words come out of my mouth, but they felt true—so I kept going. “It—it’s just one way. One way of getting there. There’s more than one way. You’re just—you’re looking for a road where there isn’t one! There’s no road, it’s like…like wandering through an unfamiliar forest—there’s no single, direct way through. You have to climb your way through the trees and thickets and undergrowth, picking each step and forging your own path. You’d always be going in the same direction, but it would be different each time. Your steps, your path wouldn't match mine.” I finished triumphantly, pleased that I’d found an explanation that seemed to encompass it all. He stared at me.

“That,” he asserted, “is utter nonsense.” He threw down his quill and tossed himself petulantly into a chair. He huffed and glared down at his arm in frustration, flexing and clenching his fingers. He looked like he’d rather have the corruption back than admit that he was wrong. I told him as much and he scoffed before scooping up his notes and stalking up the stairs. 

But, he couldn’t bear an unanswered question. Before my chicken soup had even finished cooking, he appeared again, looking purposefully aloof and untroubled, his hair damp. He was dressed in dark trousers and an aubergine shirt, carrying a pale blue leather tome. He set it down in front of me and tapped the cover with his knuckles. 

“Of course, I should have seen it before. You simply have an affinity for healing which allowed you to grasp the true form of the spell intuitively—even though you can no longer remember the particulars. That partially explains your general incompetence—healing is an idiosyncratic and wearisome branch of the magical arts. Still, I expect you’ll progress considerably faster once we devote our attention to the healing disciplines—which is good, I was nearly convinced that you were mentally defective.” He opened the book to flip through the first few pages. “We’ll begin with Groshino’s minor charms.”

“Not until I’ve eaten, we won’t.” I said, not pausing in the slightest as I chopped carrots. 

He positively growled and started jotting down notes from the book, muttering something about short, recalcitrant idiots. I ignored him. 

Half an hour later, he seemed absorbed in his reading, flipping and twirling his quill absently. I pushed a bowl of soup in front of him, replacing the quill in his hand with a spoon. He looked up and blinked as if just remembering that he wasn’t alone. I gestured pointedly at the soup in front of him. He looked from the soup to the spoon in his hand a couple times before shaking his head and taking a bite. 

I suppressed a grin behind my own spoon and slid him a thick slice of the peasant bread that I had made…jeez, the day before yesterday. Had I really only been gone a day and a half? It felt like I’d been out of the Tower for weeks!

“Wait,” I put down my spoon, “what happened with the chimaera?” 

“Lestrade may be a fool, but on the rare occasion he’s not completely useless. After he sent his messenger, he had his men bait the thing closer to the border with goats. He’d managed to get it to the edge of the mountain pass by the time I arrived. I dispatched it quickly, of course. It was scarcely the size of a pony, hardly worth my time.” He sounded strangely grim about it. 

“Surely that’s a good thing though?”

He glowered at me in annoyance. “It was a _trap”._ ” he snapped, as if that would be obvious to a person with any sense. _Idiot._ “It was a dazed and starving fledging, woken from its winter hibernation, wound up, and set loose by…someone. I was meant to be kept out of the way, distracted until Watson was completely overrun.” He was looking down at his arm, opening and closing his fist. 

“So,” I ventured, “I did well to go. Didn’t I?”

His expression was sour as spoiled milk. 

“If you consider pouring out 50 years’ worth of my most valuable potions in less than half a day ‘doing well’, then yes, _well done!_ " His lips twisted sarcastically. "Did it never occur to you that if they could be so easily spent then I would have given half a dozen flasks to every village head years ago and saved myself the trouble of setting foot into your damned valley ever again?”

“They can’t be worth more than people’s lives!”

“Life is fleeting. A single life before you in the moment isn’t worth the hundreds that will be lost elsewhere three months on,” he said patronizingly. “I am refining _one_ bottle of Fireheart right now. I started it eight years ago and it won’t be finished for another four. If you spend all my supply before then, do you really think that Acerima would generously refrain from firing our fields ‘til it's replenished?— _‘Oh pretty please! Not the crops!’_ We’d be starved and suing for peace before we could ever hope of returning the favor. And, there are similar costs for _each_ of the potions you wasted. All the more because only myself and the damn Falcon are the only ones in the kingdom who have the skill to brew such complicated potions while Acerima has _three_ that can do it.”

“But—but we’re not at war!” I protested. 

“Not _currently_ at war,” he corrected. “If they hear the tales of Fireheart and stone-skin and house-sized cabbages and realize that they might have gained a real advantage, they’ll be attacking by spring.” He paused, then added casually, “Or if they hear a song of a healer strong enough to purge corruption and start worrying that balance will soon be tipping in our favor instead. The wars of men are simultaneously petty and insidious and inevitable.”

I swallowed harshly and found a sudden interest in the carrots bobbing in my soup. It was unreal. I couldn’t really believe Acerima might declare war because of me—because of what I’d done or what they thought I _might_ be able to do someday. 

When I remembered the absolute terror I felt at seeing the beacon fires lit, I couldn’t find it in me to feel sorry at having taken the potions. But, I couldn’t pretend anymore. I couldn’t pretend that it didn’t matter if I ever learned another spell. I’d seen the consequences. 

“Do you think I’ll be able to help Robert? Once I’ve been trained?” 

“Help a man already fully corrupted?” Sherlock scoffed at me, as if the answer were completely obvious. Then he looked down at his arm again and said lowly. “You shouldn’t have been able to help me.” 

I bit my lip, watching him run his fingers over the place where the corruption had been. Then, I cleared my throat, crossed my arms and leaned forward on my elbows. 

“All right. Where do we begin?” 

~*~*~TBC~*~*~ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so excited that people seem to be enjoying this! Thanks so much for reading and commenting, it means the world :)
> 
> More to come soon!
> 
> \--muckette


	15. Arose a Storm

Unfortunately, a _willingness_ to learn Sherlock’s magic was not the same as being any _good_ at it. 

No matter how hard I concentrated or how precise my pronunciation, Groshino’s minor charms were majorly onerous and the classic conjurations of Metrodora remained resolutely unconjured. I found the theories behind the healing spells fascinating but implementing the methods still alluded me. 

After three days of letting Sherlock set me to the traditional spells of curative magic—and watching him become more and more audibly frustrated—I slammed down the cover of Vertue’s _Resurrective Artifices_ , marched over to the shelf behind his chair, pulled down the little worn, brown journal and shoved it in front of his scowling face. 

“Why can’t you teach me from _this_?” I demanded. 

“Because it is unteachable,” Sherlock snapped. “I’ve only barely managed to codify a handful of the simpler charms into some semi-sensical order and _none_ of the higher workings—they remain cryptic and unintelligible. For all her notoriety, attempting to practice _her_ brand of magic is nigh on useless.”

“Her notoriety..? Wait, who wrote this?” I turned the book to study the worn lettering on the spine.

He glowered up at me. “Jaga.”

The blood drained from my face so fast I got dizzy. 

There weren't many tales about Old Jaga. And, the few that existed were _never_ told after dark. When I was seven, Harry had taken great pleasure in telling me that if I was careless enough to let my feet dangle off the edge of the bed as I slept, Jaga would slitter up from between the floor boards and bite off my toes, feast on the flesh, and add the bones to her rattling, cadaverous crown. Dad had boxed his ears for that one. But, the real stories were only slightly less terrifying. 

Jaga had died a long time ago. She had been dead and buried five hundred years, but that hadn’t stopped her from turning up in Acerima forty years ago at the baptism of the newborn prince. She’d reduced nine guards to weevils and knocked two wizards unconscious before she’d gone over to the baby, looked down at him in irritation, and announced, “I seem to have fallen out of time again,” before vanishing in a great cloud of smoke. 

So, being dead wasn’t exactly a bar against her suddenly returning to reclaim her journal at any moment. I dropped the book as if it had scalded me and backed away. 

Upon witnessing this, Sherlock rolled his eyes and seemed to grow even more annoyed. “Oh, don’t act like a cowering tadpole. Contrary to popular opinion, she _is_ dead. And, whatever time-roving excursions she may have indulged in beforehand, I assure you she would have had better things to do than eavesdrop on incipient gossip about herself. As for this book,” he picked it up and brandished it waspishly for emphasis, “I spent an inordinate amount of time, money, and trouble to acquire it and was quite pleased with myself until I realized how infuriatingly impenetrable it was. She plainly only used it to jog her own memory and didn’t bother to put down any of the important bits, like measurements, methods, and, oh, the actual _words_ of the spell.”

“Well, the four I’ve tried have all seemed to work fine.”

He stared at me. I hadn’t exactly planned to tell him that I’d been sneaking the book off the shelf and secreting it to my room late at night. Suddenly he was on his feet, raging, and demanding I show him. He only started to believe me after he’d made me cast half a dozen of the spells from Jaga’s book.

They were all quite similar in form. Simple really—a few words, a few gestures, and occasionally a couple of herbs or things. No particular piece mattered all that much and there was no strict order to the way the incantations were cast. But, I had to agree with Sherlock on one thing—the spells were pretty close to unteachable. I couldn’t even remember what I’d done when I finished casting them, much less explain why I’d taken one step and not another. 

Nonetheless, to me, they were an inexplicable relief after the stiff, structured, and overly complicated spells that Sherlock was so fond of. And all the while, my initial description held true—I felt like I was picking my way through a dense bit of woods I’d never seen before. Her notes were like the voice of another traveler calling back through the trees to me. _There is a fallen log with mushrooms to the north... Watch your step, there is a hidden crevasse twenty paces on... There’s a gap in the brambles to your left..._ She didn’t care _how_ I got through, she just pointed me in the proper direction and let me wander my own way, feeling out the terrain beneath my feet. 

Sherlock hated it. 

He hated it so very much that I almost felt sorry for him. After he scoffed and sputtered himself into a petulant stupor over how it was _”fanciful drivel”_ with _“unsophisticated, infantile designs”_ , he insisted on standing over me so he could note every tiny move I made while I cast another. When I was finished he tried it himself.

It was very strange to watch him—like looking at a delayed and warped mirror. He must have a near perfect memory. He did everything _exactly_ the way I had, but more gracefully, with perfect precision, enunciating every syllable while simultaneously affecting my own, less posh accent and speech patterns. But, he wasn’t even halfway through before I could tell it wasn’t working. I raised a hand to interrupt him, but he flicked his eyes furiously at me without otherwise pausing, so I let him finish. 

When he was done and absolutely nothing had happened, I said simply, “You shouldn’t have said _miko_ there.”

“But, _you_ did!” he snapped. 

“Well, it was alright when _I_ did it.” I shrugged.

He flung down the sprigs of holly he had been attempting to transfigure into sparrows and glared at my three chatty birds flitting about the great clockwork monstrosity in the middle of his table. 

“I told you, your path would be different than mine.”

“Shut up.”

“It’s like you ran into a hedge and kept trying to push through instead of going around.”

“ _There are. No. **Hedges!**_ ”

“Well, _you_ have obviously been spending too much time indoors—”

_**“Get out.”** _

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I had to give him some credit. 

After a solid week of sulking—in which he spent most of his time curled grumpily on the library sofa, blinking into space, not bothering to change out of his dressing gown—he sprung up one day and dug out a handful of other spellbooks from his stacks. 

They were all dusty and unused, full of untidy spells in a similar vein to the ones in Jaga’s journal. They sat in my hands like eager friends. He picked through them, consulting and cross referencing a multitude of his other books, before setting out a new course of study that allowed for my preferred _”haphazard and preposterous”_ brand of magic. 

Then we got started properly.

He warned me of the dangers that came with attempting higher workings: of how a spell, if not properly disciplined, might slip out of your hands midway through and thrash around wildly, causing untold destruction; of how you could lose yourself so deeply in a spell that you would drift, as in a dream, within its bounds while your body died of thirst; of attempting a spell so far past your limits that it caused your magic to drain away your strength and vitality until your very essence folded on itself and evaporated into nothingness.

He no longer had to guide me in the same way, drawing out my magic from my core with his hand on my stomach, but he loomed close and crowded me all the same—as if he’d lived alone for so long he’d forgotten trivial human things like personal space.

Though he still couldn’t explain _how_ the spells that suited me worked at all—a fact that needled him to no end—he was still happy to be a ferocious critic of my results. He demanded that I tell him beforehand exactly what I meant to happen and when I couldn’t properly predict the outcome—which was often—he had me repeat them over and over until I could. 

He continued to mutter resentfully at my success, not with any real heat or jealousy, but just as a matter of principle. It offended his sense of proper order and that my slapdash workings _did_ work. So, he frowned just as deeply when I was doing well as when I’d made a mistake. 

A week into my new training, he was glaring at me while I struggled to make an illusion of a flower. It was absurdly difficult. My first three attempts had looked like limp, cotton rags. My fourth managed to produce a semi-believable, if slightly papery, wild rose.

“I just—I don’t understand,” I grit out, “Surely it would be so much simpler just to _grow_ a flower.”

“It’s not about the flower,” he said, circling me and studying the rose. “It’s a matter of scale. I assure you, it’s much easier to produce the illusion of an army than the real thing—How is that even _working?_ ” he burst out, interrupting himself, as he sometimes did when pushed past his limits by the preposterousness of my magic. “You aren’t even maintaining the spell! You _can’t_ be concentrating enough if you can roll your eyes that hard—”

“I’m still giving it magic—a great deal of magic actually. But, I can do that _and_ give you a dirty look.” It wasn’t exactly easy or pleasant, but it was worth it sometimes to watch Sherlock pout indignantly. 

After I’d discovered the type of magic that worked for me, I’d thought that everything would get much easier.

I had been mistaken. 

After I'd demonstrated a number of small charms—the equivalent to those things _“any witless novice should be able to master in a heartbeat,”_ he’d been talking about —he set me to some _real_ spells and everything got exceedingly difficult once more. 

“But, _how_ are you giving it magic?” He flapped his hands impatiently at the rose floating above my cupped hand.

“I already found the path of the spell, now it’s just a matter of staying on it. I mean, can’t you—can’t you feel that?” I asked abruptly as I held my illusion out toward him. 

He frowned and shifted forward, bracketing his hands outside of and above my own and muttered “ _Vadiya rusha ilikad tuhi_.” 

A second illusion laid itself over mine, two roses occupying the same space. His, predictably, had three rings of oh-too-perfect petals and even wafted a delicately sweet fragrance. 

“Now, try and match it,” he said absently, his fingers moving slightly, similarly to the way I’d seen him pluck the strings of his violin. I followed his lead.  


With lurching stops and starts, we brought our illusions closer together until they were just a glimmer apart, imperceptivity different. I pushed my spell forward, trying to eliminate that last little disparity. 

“Ah…” he said suddenly, surprised. 

And I realized, I was beginning to glimpse _his_ spell—it was almost exactly like that strange clockwork on his table, all gears and shining moving parts. Just as I imagined his great mind might appear. 

On impulse, I reached out my magic and tried to align our workings—letting the rushing stream of my spell run through and power the immaculate machinery of his, driving it forward and pushing it faster. I lifted my hands so that the blazing skin of his palms ghosted against my knuckles

“What the hell do you think you are—” And then, abruptly, we had a single rose. 

And it was growing. 

But, it wasn’t only the rose. Roots were cascading down and spilling over the stone floor. Vines were climbing up the bookshelves in every direction. The arch of the doorway was lost among the shadow of heavy green leaves as the tall, slender forms of birches began to grow. Moss and violets sprang up under my feet and great, towering ferns were unfolding around us. Flowers were blooming everywhere—some familiar and some I’d never seen before, bright and dangerously colorful. Their fragrance and the cloying scent of damp, fresh-turned soil filled my nose as I looked around myself in wonder, magic still flowing and feeding the illusion. 

“Is this what you meant?” I asked, breathlessly, turning back to him. But, he wasn’t looking around at the rising forest around us. He was staring at me, astonished. 

He just looked at me. For the first time, Sherlock seemed uncertain—as if he had stumbled into something he was completely unprepared for. 

As I stared back, his eyes darkened. His lips parted and a flush was slowly staining his cheeks. His hands went from barely brushing to possessively enveloping mine as we held the rose together. My magic was singing through my veins and I felt the throbbing of his power singing back the same song.

Something warm and hungry curled into my stomach. 

I wanted…I _ **needed**_ …

I felt the tips of his fingers brush the thin, intimate skin of my wrist.

Suddenly I couldn’t breathe. I was too hot, lightheaded. Too aware of my own body under his intense gaze. I blinked, casting my eyes down—confused and strangely self-conscious—and pulled my hands free. It all vanished.

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, we're getting somewhere! I mean really, I like a slow burn but Sherlock and John really have been dragging their feet on the romance aspect of this story. ;-P
> 
> Thanks for reading y'all! Your comments and kudos keep me smiling and my cat happy.


	16. An Short Interlude

I avoided him all the next day, like the coward I was. I realized too late that my success in doing so meant that _he_ was avoiding _me_ too. He had never let me miss a lesson before—even bursting into my room to badger me if I was too slow getting to the library when he was particularly wound up. 

I tried to convince myself that it didn’t mean anything—we’d both just wanted a little holiday from my exhausting training. When I thought about it like that, it made it much easier to ignore just how off-kilter I felt. I’d had a restless night, haunted by dreams of how dark his eyes had been near the end, the fire of his hands engulfing mine, and what might have happened next if I hadn’t pulled back…

The second night was no better. In the morning, I woke flustered, hard, and rutting against my mattress. Groaning, I pushed my heated face deeper into the softness of my pillows, indulging in the slow grind of my cock against the sheets. 

If I didn’t open my eyes, I didn’t have to admit I was doing it. Right? 

The early morning sunlight made the insides of my eyelids glow a fierce red and despite the chill of the room, a bead of sweat broke free from my hairline and crept down my back, tickling between my shoulder blades. The sensation made my muscles bunch and shiver as I rolled my hips harder, faster, chasing that heady edge of pleasure, searching for some sort of release. 

A frustrated whine escaped unbidden from my throat and lingered in the stillness of the crisp winter air, catching me by surprise. My eyes snapped open. I froze.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t going to be enough. 

I was a healthy seventeen year old boy. I had healthy seventeen year old boy urges. Or, I used to. 

Since I’d come to the Tower, I’d had very little desire to touch myself—oscillating between extreme terror and bone-deep exhaustion on a daily basis apparently put a damper on one’s libido—rarely giving into a rough, quick tug and only in the dark of the night when my cock would wake up and refuse to let me sleep until it was seen too. And I had so desperately wanted to sleep, to not worry or think. 

But, I was awake now. And thinking. Thinking was dangerous. There was no telling where that could lead.

I twisted and settled on my back with a dissatisfied huff, glaring down at where my stiff cock tented the bedclothes obscenely in the cold, thin light of day. I covered it with my hand just so I wouldn’t have to look at it. I may have also given it a firm squeeze. Just because, you know, my hand was already there. 

_Fuck._

Fine. So, I was doing this. 

I groaned and thunked my head back against the pillow, resigned, and slipped my hand under my night shirt to take hold of my rebellious cock. I closed my eyes, concentrating on the sensations—the drag of my dry palm against the heated underside, the swirl of my thumb across the moisture at the slit, the urgent clench of my stomach muscles—casting about for a safe place to settle my mind.

I found the color blue. Blue eyes. Tom’s eyes. A common enough feature in my fantasies. Okay. I sighed happily, licked my lips, and settled deeper into my wank, letting the fantasy play out.

His bright, blue eyes stared down at me as I tried to remember what the constellation of freckles on his bare, tan shoulders had looked like as he worked in the summer sun, what his rough hands might feel like clutching my arms, dragging down my back... His eyes sparkled. They weren’t haunted like the last time I’d seen them. The soul deep sadness was missing. Instead, they were clear and fierce and sharp. Lighter than I remembered. Pinning me. Studying me…

Ice blue.

Sparkling with critical amusement as I chased my release. Their corners tilted up in a condescending smirk.

_Idiot._

Need zinged through me, rippling across my skin and tingling in my toes. Heat coiled around my neck, pouring across my cheeks, radiating off my chest. The memory of _**his**_ heat flooded my senses. The fire in his eyes, his palm scorching the skin of my stomach, the blazing trail of his long fingers drifting lower and lower, until…

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I was still thrumming when I arrived at the library ten minutes later. Sherlock was already there—of course he was—tuning his violin with a flourish. 

“Right then. Today we’ll begin with—” he stopped abruptly, having finally looked up from the pegs. 

It took him two seconds to scan me—his eyes devouring my flushed face, chewed bottom lip, rumpled hair, the nervous fidgeting of my hands on my thighs—he even seemed to sniff the air a bit.

He smirked, eyes dancing with amusement and…something. 

_Shit_

“I trust you had a pleasant…lie in.” The insinuation was thick as his voice was deep. I squirmed. 

“As you seem quite out of breath from your short trot down the stairs, we’ll begin with Jaga’s _travitas shae_ incantation and see if we can’t increase your... endurance.” 

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait and short, drabble of a chapter. Hope it's not too much of a disappointment. The plot for the next couple of chapters has been kicking my ass! But, I wanted to give you all a little something for being so patient with me :) More shenanigans are to follow soon, Promise! (The next chapter is a beast!) 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting, it means the world :)  
> \--muckette


	17. Hounded

He was doing it on purpose. He must have been. 

True to form, after I’d managed to fight through my paralytic embarrassment enough to duck my head and sink into the chair at the table, he set me to practicing an endurance spell. I was to levitate one of his feather quills, _tishi rosha ku-eh_ , then use Jaga’s spell, _travitas shae_ to keep it afloat—not sinking or rising or twitching, just hovering—a full hour.

Simple really. Except it wasn’t. The purple sand of had barely coated the bottom of his ornate, crystal hourglass before the feather began to sag and wilt haltingly toward the table.

“Again.” He demanded, snatching the quill from the air, slamming it down on the table, and resetting the hourglass to one. I had a tension headache climbing up my neck by the fourth attempt. It took an inordinate amount of control and concentration, constantly feeding the spell a steady stream of magic to prevent it from moving. This was about precision and mental endurance—even though I had easily found the path of the spell, it was a rough one to travel and it felt never ending. 

It certainly didn’t help that I was acutely aware of the space Sherlock occupied in the suddenly-too-small room. Every little crinkle of a page turning, every soft creak of leather as he adjusted in his chair, had the feather quill twitching in distracted rebellion—forcing me to start over yet again. 

And, as I said, he was doing it on purpose. 

I had finally managed to earn over a third of the hour’s sand in the glass by ruminating on the metal nib when suddenly, the heat of his hand ghosted past my cheek and snatch a scroll off the top of the stack in front of me. _**Schhhink!**_ The quill shot like arrow from a bow, embedding itself a good three inches into the stone of the fireplace. I was mortified as we both blinked at the quivering shaft of the feather. 

“Hm,” was all Sherlock said, tossing the scroll to the top of a neighboring stack before retreating to reset the hourglass. 

Such an _urgent_ matter, that had been. 

I’d barely managed to wrestle the quill out of its new home in the wall before I realized that Sherlock had paused in front of the window. 

“It seems that we have a guest.” He murmured, eyes narrowing inquisitively at the shadow of a dark horse cutting through the snow towards us.

I hadn’t seen another person—besides Sherlock—since the day after we’d returned from Watson. 

Una had sent the flask of Fireheart back to Olsha with an escort of armed men, gathered grimly from every village of the valley as it passed through. It was quite brave of them really. They were a simple ragtag group of farmers and craftsmen, ready to face the horrible possibility of the great and powerful Dragon, twisted and bent by the Wood’s malice. Even when we had shown ourselves to them, they had been reticent to believe that the Dragon was not corrupted. 

The mayor of Olsha—that blustering man who had attempted to stop my journey to Watson—had even demanded that the Dragon show the wound to the town physician. Sherlock had huffed out his irritation, but rolled his sleeves up to show the smooth, white expanse of his forearms. He even allowed the man to prick his finger tip and witness the blood swell up, thick and crimson and healthy. He knew how important it was for them to see with their own eyes that the danger had passed. 

Then they brought in the priest. That he had less patience for. 

“Why on earth do you think the rambling nonsense of the village idiot would do any good?” he demanded, before turning his brutal tongue to the stooped man in purple robes. “I’ve let you play soul-servant to a dozen fully corrupted sods in the past—did any of them spring out of bed, whole and purified, singing the gospel of the Purple Rose? _No._ They all died screaming in fires. Only _slightly_ less horrific than a life full of monasticism and religious platitudes. If you couldn’t save those pathetic souls, what damn good do you imagine you’ll achieve by saying a paltry blessing over me? Now get out, the lot of you, before I show you a _true_ smiting.”

They had turned over the Fireheart and gone. Quickly.

Since then it had just been the two of us.

“That horse is from the Olsha stables, so he’s traveled far enough to need a fresh one. He’s riding at a steady clip, but it’s not a full out sprint—so a worrisome matter, but not of immediate urgency. Or, he’s uncertain of whether his matter truly warrants bothering me. Hmmm…” Sherlock stepped back from the window, turned up his collar, and whisked out of the library. I was left floundering by the window, wondering if I should reset the hourglass and continue my spellwork. 

The door popped open and his head poked back in. 

“Coming John?”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He was an odd looking sort of fellow. He had over-large ears, a wide forehead, and a turned up nose. Not unpleasant looking, just odd. 

Sherlock had been right—of course—the man was hesitant to voice his purpose directly. He was obviously nervous and waffling all the way back up to the library. It took a bit of cajoling, two cups of tea, and a whiskey to get him talking. He was scared though, that much was certain.

I hesitated by the door. I wasn’t sure exactly what my place was—what I should be doing or how I should be acting. Was I enacting the role of servant or student? Should I be silent or was I expected to participate? 

Sherlock pulled out the heavy wooden desk chair and set it across from the two armchairs, gesturing for the man to take a seat. He folded into his own, steepling his hands before noticing that I was still dawdling in the doorway. He furrowed his brow at me and jerked his head to indicate the empty space across from him. I exhaled, crossed the room, and sank into my red chair. The corner of his mouth quirked up. 

“M-my Lord Dragon, my name is Henry. I’ve traveled from the village of Dartmoor in the Yellow Marshes. Baron Lestrade gave me leave to come and beg your help on a matter most dire—”

“Yes, yes. Dire. Nefarious. Ominous. _Boring._ Get on with it.” 

Henry’s big eyes flicked to me, aghast. I tried to smile reassuringly. “He means, in your own time.”

“But quite quickly.” Sherlock was drumming his fingers impatiently against his armrests. I bit my lip—to keep from grinning or sighing, I wasn’t sure—and nodded for Henry to continue.

He swallowed the last of his whiskey, shivered as if shaking off a chill, and began his story. 

Apparently in the village of Dartmoor, just on the other side of the mountain pass, people were being abducted and killed. Six in the past two months. Each person had disappeared in the middle of the night—bed sheets clawed, tattered, and bloodstained.

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupted, “but why are you here?”

“I—I’ve just told you…?”

“No. You’ve told me that six random people are dead. But, why are _you_ here?”

“Sherlo—,” I caught myself. Probably best to show some form of deference in company. “ _My lord_. People are dying, surely that warrants sending a messenger for help.”

“Yes, a messenger. Not the richest man in town.”

“How…how did you know?”

“I didn’t know. I observed. I can see your wealth in your coat buttons and the turn ups of your boots—just as I can read your university education in your haircut and your family’s desire for nobility from the embossing on your gloves. Now, who was it?”

“What?” Henry recoiled in his seat, rubbing absently at his wrist where I could see a hint of a silver family crest.

“No. Not ‘what’. _’Who’._ Who was important enough to justify getting saddle sores from the rough two day ride, _alone_ , to beg help from a man you are so clearly terrified of. So, at risk of repeating myself ad nauseam, _who_? Which of your nearest and dearest has recently been violently slaughtered?” He leaned forward smugly and I had to stop myself from kicking him.

“My…my father.” Henry muttered, dazed—either from Sherlock’s brilliance or rudeness. Possibly both. Most likely both. 

“He…three nights ago, I awoke to the sound of him screaming,” Every word was labored, as if torn from him, as if he was wrestling them from the depths of a fresh nightmare. “I ran to his room and found the side door flung open, the curtains torn, there was blood…so much blood. _Everywhere._ And, on the hill, out of the mist, loomed the form of…a gigantic, black _**hound.**_ ” A shiver roll up my spine. Henry looked absolutely haunted by the horror of what he’d seen. 

“A hound.” Sherlock said incredulously, trying the word out in his mouth. “Really, a _hound?_ That’s it? That’s all? That’s what you are wasting my time with? Dull.”

“But, my lord, it wasn’t a normal hound! And, I wasn’t the first to see it—it’s been sighted at each of the scenes. We’ve sent three hunting parties after it. None have seen hide nor hair of it, except after an attack. It had these red, glowing eyes. It looked right at me. Right into my very soul. A hound straight from hell. And, just as I watched, it evaporated. Disappearing into the fog—”

“Yes, yes, terrifying I’m sure.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, lurched from his chair, and turned his attention to tinkering with the clockwork machine on the table—obviously dismissing the conversation. “Check the bodies. The livers are most likely missing. It’s a common bargheist. Have your men burn braziers of myrtleroot extract around the village for the next fortnight. It should get bored and retreat to the bogs. Or better yet, go bother the Falcon with this tosh—he could certainly use the exercise.”

“But, my lord, we can’t check.” Henry raised his voice over the whirring of the machinery, “There are no bodies.”

Sherlock’s head snapped around. The machine stopped whirring. “What did you say?”

“I said…We can’t check. There are no bodies.” 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. He stood stock-still as I watched about a dozen different expressions ripple across his face, rapid fire, sorting through his thoughts. 

“Huh.” He breathed, his face lighting up with a delighted, impish grin. “Well then, you’d best be on your way Henry.”

“Wait—what? Why?” Sherlock had grabbed Henry’s elbow, heaved him out of the chair, and was practically shoving him out of the door. 

“Well, I assume you’ll need to go ahead to prepare rooms for us. We’ll follow behind.” Sherlock’s eyes glittered at me. “We’re going to Dartmoor.”

“What—really? Both of us?” I sputtered, not daring to hope.

“Obviously. I’d be lost without my apprentice.” He smirked, mischievously. “Besides, the last time I left you to your own devices, you were nearly eaten by wolves. Best not to make that mistake again.”

~*~*~TBC~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait everyone! Been having some major issues in real life. :( Plus, what started as a single chapter is now being split into three—because I’m not good at brevity apparently. Haha Anyway, I hope to get the next section out soon. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who kudos and comments, I've actually gone back to reread them multiple times to bring some sunshine to my days lately. They mean more than you know.  
> \--muckette

**Author's Note:**

> Art for this fic:  
> [](http://muckette.tumblr.com/post/140183097651/rough-sketch-of-sherlock-the-dragon-plus-a)
> 
>    
> [John the Terribly Ordinary Boy](http://muckette.tumblr.com/post/140082191616/sketch-and-a-couple-gratuitous-close-ups)  
> [The Unexpected Apprentice](http://muckette.tumblr.com/image/140593311266)


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